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THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

ISAAC RUSLING PENNYPACKER 



fFith an Introduction by Charles Leonard Moore 



PHILADELPHIA 

CHRISTOPHER SOWER COMPANY 

1913 






Copyright, 1913, by Isaac R. Pennypacker 



)CI.A347500 



IN MEMORY OF 
J. R. W. 



CONTENTS 



Introduction 5 

Snow-shoe Trail 13 

Gettysburg 21 

November Night 28 

Tacey Richardson's Race 30 

The Falling of the Dew 38 

St. James', Perkiomen 40 

The Perkiomen 45 

The Old Church at the Trappe 47 

Becalmed 50 

Ha! Ha! and Ha! Ha! Indeed! 51 

At the Sign of the Red Rose 54 

Leonard Keyser 58 

In Winter Quarters 61 

The Burying Ground 63 

The Piney 64 

Good Times 66 

After the Proposal 68 

The Tangled Strings 69 

The Ship of State 70 

John Ericsson 71 

Bridle Paths 73 

Notes 167 



(5) 



INTRODUCTION 

"After many days!" The author of this book has 
waited a long time before definitely appealing to the 
public — "bringing his sheaves with him." Perhaps his 
reserve, his refusal to advertise or force his product, 
may stand him in good stead. For after all poetry, like 
wine, must ripen. It seems absolutely necessary that it 
should be in existence a good while before it can acquire 
its right flavor or luster. Many of Mr. Pennypacker's 
shorter poems have been quietly making their way for 
years. They have gathered to themselves a gleaming 
array of critical opinions which light them up and set 
them off. 

In another field Mr. Pennypacker is well known as 
an historian and war critic. His biography of General 
Meade revived the fame of that great soldier and inaugu- 
rated a movement of recognition whose end is not yet. 

Mr. Penn5^acker's first book of verse, Gettysburg 
and Other Poems, was published in 1890. But some 
of the pieces included in that volume had been known 
for years. Two of them, "The Old Church at the 
Trappe" and "Perkiomen," were included by Long- 
fellow in his "Poems of Places." Another, "Tacey 
Richardson's Race," was placed by Miss Longfellow 
in her anthology entitled, "In the Saddle." Still other 

(7) 



8 INTRODUCTION 

pieces are in Stedman's Library of American Literature 
and in various school readers. "Leonard Keyser" has 
been translated into German, and the song, "The Dutch 
on the Delaware," into Dutch. 

The initial poem of the earlier book was read on the 
field it commemorates, by invitation of the Common- 
wealth of Pennsylvania. Edmund Clarence Stedman 
was generous enough to give it a higher place than his 
own similar composition, Mr. George Morgan, the 
novelist, discussing the hterature of Gettysburg, writes: 
"Bayard Taylor, whose brother died heroically in Plum 
Run Gorge, wrote a Gettysburg ode; Whittier gave 
us a picturesque poem upon an incident, 'The Beehive 
at Gettysburg' — bees in an old drum; Colonel J. W. 
De Forest's ballad, ' Pickett's Charge, ' is well remem- 
bered; Bret Harte wrote in Bret Harte's way of old 
John Burns; 'High Tide' we have had by William H. 
Thompson, and finally, something nobler and greater 
than these in Isaac R. Pennypacker's 'Gettysburg,' 
which Edmund Clarence Stedman designates as a 'noble 
free-hand epic!' " 

A revival of the Chaucerian epos, the genre of the 
Canterbury tales, is perhaps what might least be expected 
in modern verse. Our lyrical turn and the conquest of 
this field by the novel are against it. In the last genera- 
tion, Clough and Morris in England, and Longfellow 
and Whittier in America, did something of the kind. 
This novelty, this return to narrative and to the broad 



INTRODUCTION 9 

delineation of human nature, Mr. Penn5T5acker has pro- 
vided. His Bridle Paths, in limited scope it is true, 
essays the Chaucerian method and achieves something 
of the Chaucerian atmosphere. The intense, highly 
artificial technique of modern poetry and the short 
story is cast aside for the nonce and we get a wholesome, 
open-air treatment of a theme or a number of associated 
themes. The plan of the piece is this : A party of eight 
friends, denominated respectively the Sage, Historian, 
Preacher, Doctor, Farmer, Student, and so forth, take 
horse for a month's ride. Their course leads them through 
the borderland of the North and South — the dark and 
bloody ground, now smiling in the May sunshine, where 
giant armies contended in the past. The daily incidents 
of the ride are recorded — the keen zest of life in the saddle, 
the changing aspects of the scenery, the midday rest for 
lunch, the stir and bustle in out-of-the-world villages at 
the coming of such a cavalcade, the evening arrival at 
wayside inns. And through all, alike on the march as 
at the fireside, there runs a stream of talk about the 
historic scenes they are visiting, the heroic personages 
of the past, or the grave social problems of today and 
the future. These pilgrims, unlike Chaucer's, do not 
tell tales to while away the time, but they exchange 
quip and jest and bright thoughts; and they read to 
each other brief poems, lyrics of race, of battle, of love 
or tragedy. The poem winds up with a dramatic episode 
in the Virginia mountains. In a way it recalls Clough's 



10 INTRODUCTION 

"Bothie of Tober na Vuolich." Time and place and 
manners and methods are, of course, different; but there 
is the same making of poetry out of the common events 
and scenes of the present; the same disturbed and heretical 
attitude toward current opinion, and the same revulsion 
toward a more heroic ideal of life than obtains in our 
money-grabbing, motor-rushing age. Mr. Pennypacker's 
summer pilgrims are quite real and vivid projections, 
but they give utterance to much stern and lofty idealism. 
The background of the Civil War lifts their thought 
out of the rut. 

As may be judged by the above, the dominant note 
in Mr. Pennypacker's poetic work is patriotism — a deep 
and abiding loyalty to home and country. The instinct 
of locality is strong in him; he strikes his roots deep into 
the soil whence he springs. Picturesque or heroic per- 
sonages of our past, our battlefields, our old inns and 
homesteads, legends of American manor houses, these 
are the themes that most appeal to him. He seems 
peculiarly the celebrant of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, 
and Maryland. Such poems as "The Red Rose Inn," 
"Old Church at the Trappe," "Perkiomen," "The 
Jersey Blues," "The Dutch on the Delaware," and, of 
course, the "Gettysburg" ode, and much of his long 
narrative poem bear this out. Yet there is a small group 
of poems — nature pieces mainly — which have another 
strain in them. One of these, "November Night," is an 
impressionistic sketch with a white intensity of emotion. 



INTRODUCTION H 

"The Snow-Shoe Trail" is another where singing syllables 
and lace-work pictures of the frost forest are infused 
with personal feeling. Such pieces as "Kruger" and 
"The Unknown Water" rank high in imaginative force 
and justness of phrase. 

There is a gift of lilt and haunting melody in many of 
Mr. Pennypacker's poems. Whether in the swinging 
measure of "Tacey Richardson's Race," the grave ca- 
dences of "The Red Rose Inn," or "Perkiomen," or the 
plangent syllables of "Kruger," his notes are true and 
full and strong. The "Gettysburg" ode is full of fine 
music in its many changes of key. Perhaps in this 
respect the most characteristic poem is "The Dutch on 
the Delaware." Racial instinct, personal emotion, and 
rare melodic effects combine to make it a notable thing. 
It has been set to extremely good music and is widely 
sung when the Sons of Holland in this country are gathered 
together. 

It is pleasant to praise one who has praised so many, 
and there is a good hope that Mr. Pennypacker will be 
remembered who has so well remembered the places 
and people of our past. 

Charles Leonard Moore. 



THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 

(the adirondacks) 

OUT on the open wind-swept spaces 
Of frozen lake a whirling snow 
The waving snow-shoe trail effaces, 
But near the still and sheltered places, 
Where Balsam, Spruce, and Larch trees grow, 
The swinging stride all Northmen know 
A vine in leaf distinctly traces, 
As it had been embroidered so 
On a white garment's edge to flow. 

The moons of live white months have been 

The ladies of this chamber's graces: 
November covered up the green, 

December hung the delicate laces, 
March found the chamber sweet and clean, 

The Firs all folded in white cases, 
With every limb and twig between 

And all the forest's hidden mazes 
A-glitter with the hoar-frost sheen: 

The moon of March throughout its phases 

Hung opal, pearl, and purple hazes, 

Softer than tints of Orient vases, 
Then deftly set another scene 
And rolled away the hiding screen. 

(13) 



14 THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 

All night the Maples cracked with cold; 

The sleeper from his blanket's fold 

Heard house-boards strain and snap their hold; 
At dawn from every chimney flume 
Rose upright a long, feathery plume, 
The winter hearth-fire's morning bloom. 

The sun but clears the mountain edge, 

A httle veers along the ledge, 

Views a brief while our heritage, 
Then swiftly sinks upon his track, 
Loosening the twilight like a pack 
SHpped from a weary pilgrim's back: 

But 'ere too soon his ray declines, 

A satin ribbon he unwinds 

Along the road among the pines. 

Now do his sun dogs sink from sight, 
Now sudden clouds retouch with white 
Expanses fit for Eremite, 
The Eskimo or Muscovite, 

And now the lightened galleons throw 

A thin, blue shadow on the snow. 
From orchards of Hesperides, 
Out of the farthest fringe of trees, 
Swift from her golden draperies, 
The moon glides through her star-filled seas. 

High on her arc, where thickly clung 

The paUng stars she rides among. 

The Polar banners far upflung 



THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 15 

Crackle like chords too tensely strung 
And fade into another day, 
True to the sun dog's promise gray 
And late in coming up this way. 



Four feet of ice binds fast the lake, 

Five feet of snow enfolds the land: 

Along the trail, on either hand, 
Thrust down the staff and soundings take 

Of this white deep upon whose bed 
Submerged, rests many a hidden boulder; 

There fallen trees are thickly spread, 

There silenced brooks, in secret fed, 
Keep rights of way with no beholder 

'Til spring unbind this watershed. 
Shift the pack basket on the shoulder 
And tighter draw the snow-shoe lashing! 

Then through the portal Hghtly tread 
Into the templed Tamarack slashing! 

Here sun and moon and stars, in turn, 
Look down along the roofless wall. 

Whiter than any marble urn 
In which unfettered fountains fall. 

Where now the tropic sun rays burn, 
Gilding the ripening orange ball. 

And last year's fledgling robins learn 
The long flight through spring's festival. 



16 THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 

There through the open window floats 
The tumult pouring from the throats 
Of mocking birds in Live Oak cotes, 
And over the salt marshes creep 
Slow tides along the sea wall steep, 
The breathing of the gulf in sleep. 
But here no courier of the spring, 
Save the witch hobble blossoming 
In casements where the icicles cling, 
Gives challenge to the winter king. 
Earth tilts and turns and leaves unshaken 
The enduring dynasty of the frost; 
While man-made realms are won or lost 
His mountain stronghold stands untaken. 
Before his breath, spring's gentle host 
Of blossoms, longing to awaken, 

Perish before his scarp is crossed; 
And the poor flags of summer's troop. 
Thrust feebly forward, faint and droop. 

From boulder down to boulder leaping, 

The brook eludes gray winter's grasp, 
But soon returns into his keeping. 

And yielding, stiffens in his clasp. 
Close by the spring no cold has sealed. 

From the earth-mother warm up-gushing, 
Where clustered Pines afford a shield 

Against the sudden snow squall's rushing. 



THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 17 

With snow-shoe shovel, clear a space 
From the dry snow for camp fire place! 

On the bare ground the light wood heaping, 
Upon it fagots interlace. 

And when the blaze through all is creeping, 
And hot flames, dancing, scorch the face. 

From the toboggan fetch the kettle. 
The broiler, meat, and coffee pot! 

Make of the log and furs a settle, 
Whither the fire smoke wanders not! 
Salt to good broth and sip it hot 

And keep the cook upon his mettle! 
Let not the fragrant pot boil over! 
One whiff and then replace the cover! 
A brief while round the camp fire hover! 

A brief rest on the soft snow cot 

And weariness is clean forgot. 



The compass points the way ahead 
When all the trails lie behind us; 

The hours of light will soon be sped; 
Will good friends sally forth to find us, 
Should darkness in the forest bind us? 
Already deepening shades remind us 

Of the night's peril left unsaid, 
But real though it be unspoken. 
So speed the pace! A snow-shoe broken, 



18 THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 

Nights bitter cold! And men have trod 
In circles, died and left no token 

'Til spring revealed a lifeless clod. 
Whistle the dogs back! With eyes blinking, 
Back at the summons they come slinking. 

Silent the bark of late so loud, 

And crawl to heel and cringe and whine. 
In lip and tongue the sharp quills sinking. 

Caught from the armored porcupine. 
Thenceforth at every stride we take, 
Like rudders in the vessel's wake. 
They swing along the trail we make, 

'Til over eager in the pace, 

They mar the snow-shoe's pleasing grace 

And trip their master on his face. 

Here tracks in sweeping curves meander 
And cease where pheasant spreads his wing 

Into the trackless air to wander, 

On earth again alighting yonder 
Within the hobble bushes' ring; 

And here across the forest aisle. 

Where low the Spruce and Balsam swing, 
The fox went by an hour ago, 

And here he turned to hark awhile, 

And from the branches whisked the snow. 
Missing the hare, which loping low 

Found shelter in the brushwood pile. 



THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 19 

On the steep way our steps are wending, 
Dark grows the forest's green and white. 

Now all the woodland gloom is blending 
With deeper shades influng by night. 

High over head the roar and rending 
Of wind-tossed branches speed our flight, 

Down to the mountain's base descending, 

Until we near the long trail's ending, 
And from the valley, still and white, 
Flashes a welcome village light. 

Clear to the door with shriek and bellow 

The storm's outrider dashes up. 
Ho! ho! Bold rider, jolly fellow. 

Wilt drink with us a stirrup cup 
To make thy boisterous laugh more mellow? 

He hurries on; he cannot stay. 
Then pile the logs upon the fire 
And raise the window curtain higher 

To light the roysterer on his way! 
Hear all the crazy tree tops shaking. 
Before his breath bent near to breaking! 
And now a mighty leap he's making 

Across the valley, takes a tumble 
And rends his robe of fleece in wrath. 
Flings wide its fragments o'er his path 

And laughs aloud to see men stumble 

Through drifts piled high by doorways humble, 



20 THE SNOW-SHOE TRAIL 

At midnight makes the windows rattle, 
Then through the mountain gap with roar 

Like that of guns rolled out to battle, 
O'er lowland hamlets, towns a score. 

O'er greening farms with scurrying cattle, 
Rushes on toward the ocean shore. 

Lashes the sea to many a billow 

And dies upon its stormy pillow. 



GETTYSBURG 

y ^ t AWAS on the time when Lee, 
X Below Potomac's swollen ford, 
Had beaten down the broken sword 
Of his baffled enemy. 

His long line lengthened faster 

Than the days of June, 

O'er valleys varied, mountains vaster, 

By forced marches night and noon. 

Any morn might bring him down, 

Captor of the proudest town; 

Any one of cities three 

At noon or night might prostrate be. 

Then to Meade was the sword of the North 

Held hiltward for proof of its worth; 

O'er the vastness of masses of men 

All the glorious banners of war, 

All the battle-flags floated again; 

All the bugles blew bhthely once more. 

Sounding the stately advance; 

Village door-ways framed faces of awe 

At the trains of artillery pressed 

On earth's reverberent breast, 

And the sun sought the zenith, and saw 

All the splendors of war at a glance. 

(21) 



22 GETTYSBURG 

How soon the first fierce rain of death, 
In big drops dancing on the trees, 
Withers the fohage! At a breath. 
Hot as the blasts that dried old seas, 
The clover falls like drops of blood 
From mortal hurts, and stains the sod; 
The wheat is clipped, but the ripe grain 
Here long ungarnered shall remain; 
And many who at the drum's long roll 
Sprang to the charge and swelled the cheer, 
And set their flags high on the knoll. 
Ne'er knew how went the fight fought here; 
For them a knell tumultuous shells 
Shook from the consecrated bells, 
As here they formed that silent rank, 
Whose glorious star at twilight sank. 

And night, which lulls all discords — night, 
Which stills the fold and vocal wood. 
And, with the touch of finger light, 
Quiets the pink-lipped brook's wild mood, 
Which sends the wind to seek the latch. 
And seals young eyes while mothers watch — 
Night stays the battle, but with day 
Their lives, themselves, foes hurl away. 
Where thousands fell, but did not yield. 
Shall be to-morrow's battle-field. 
E'er dying died or dead were cold. 



GETTYSBURG 23 

New hosts pressed on the lines to hold, 
And held them — hold them now in sleep, 
While stars and sentinels go round, 
And war-worn chargers shrink like sheep 
Beside their riders on the ground. 
All through the night — all through the North 
Speed doubtful tidings back and forth; 
Through North and South, from dusk till day, 
A sundered people diverse pray. 

So gradual sink the deliberate stars. 

The sun doth run the laggards down. 

At sleep's still meadows bursts the bars. 

And floods with light the steepled town. 

Blow, bugles of the cavalry, blow! 

Forward the infantry, row on row! 

While every battery leaps with life, 

And swells with tongueless throats the strife! 

Where grappled foes, one flushed with joy, 
From triumphs fresh come to destroy. 
And one by blows but tempered fit 
To keep the torch of freedom lit. 
The battle-dust from heroes' feet, 
Brief hiding rally and last retreat. 
By the free sunlight touched became 
A golden pillar of lambent flame. 
Glorified was this field, its white 



24 GETTYSBURG 

Faces of victors and of slain, 

And these and Round-Top's luminous height 

That glory flashed afar again, 

Around the world, for all to see 

One nation and one wholly free. 

And branded deep with flaming sword 

Its primal compact's binding word. 

'Neath Freedom's dome that light divine. 

Borne here through dark defiles of Time, 

From here upblazed, a beacon sign 

To all the oppressed of every clime. 

And dulled eyes glistened: hope upsprung 

Where'er ills old when man was young. 

Against awaking thought were set. 

Where power its tribute wrongly wrung. 

Or moved on pathways rank even yet 

With martyrs' blood, where'er a tongue 

Hath words to show, as serf, slave, thrall. 

How great man's power! how deep man's fall! 

Long will be felt, though hurled in vain, 
The shock that shook the Northern gate; 
Long heard the shots that dashed amain, 
But flattened on the rock of fate, 
Where Lee still strove, but failed to break 
The barrier down, or fissure make, 
And never grasped by force the prize 
Deferred by years of compromise; 



GETTYSBURG 25 

Long will men keep the memory bright 
Of deeds done here; how flashed the blade 
Of Hancock from South Mountain's shade 
To sheer heights of unfading light! 
That martial morn o'er yonder ridge 
Reynolds last rode face towards the foe, 
And onward rides through history so; 
No miracles of halted suns 
The gulf of time for Meade abridge, 
But still its depths fling back his guns' 
Victorious echoes. The same wise power 
Which starts the current from ocean's heart, 
And hurls the tides at their due hour, 
Or holds them with a force unspent. 
Made him like master, in each part. 
O'er all his mighty instrument. 
Chief leaders of the battle great! 
Three sons of one proud mother State! 
These epoch stones she sets stand fast, 
As on her field her regiments stood; 
Their volleys rang the first and last; 
They kept with Webb the target-wood. 
And there for all turned on its track 
The wild gulf stream of treason back, 
Or on the stubborn hill-sides trod 
Out harvests sown not on the clod. 
Hearts shall beat high in days grown tame 
At thoughts of them and their proud fame, 



26 GETTYSBURG 

And watching Pickett's gallant band 
Melt like lost snow-flakes in the deep, 
Pity shall grow throughout the land, 
And near apace with joy shall keep. 

Baflfled, beaten, back to the ford. 

His own at last the broken sword. 

Rode the invader. On his breast 

His head with sorrow low was pressed; 

On his horse's tangled mane 

Loosely hung the bridle rein. 

At Gettysburg his valiant host 

The last hope of their cause had lost; 

In vain their daring and endeavor, 

It was buried there forever; 

Right well he knew the way he fled 

Straight to the last surrender led. 

So ended Lee's anabasis. 

And all he hoped had come to this: — 

As well for master as the driven 

That not to him was victory given; 

So Right emboldened and made known 

Hurled the whole troop of Error down. 

And here held fast an heritage. 

So on that course may all hold fast 

Till no man takes an hundred's wage. 

And each one has his own at last, 



GETTYSBURG 27 

Till the last caravan of the bound, 
Driven towards some Bornuese market-place, 
Happily shall feel their bonds unwound, 
And steps of woe in joy retrace. 

In the cities of the North 

The brazen cannon belched forth 

For the defeat of Lee. 

When the smoke from this field 

Unfolded, lo! fixed on the shield. 

Each wandering star was revealed. 

And the steeple bells pealed 

Inland to the further sea. 

In the villages flags waved 

For Meade's victory, — 

A thousand, thousand flags waved 

For the souls to be free. 

For the Union saved, 

For the Union still to be. 



A NOVEMBER NIGHT 

HO! Channing! The wild geese that thou did'st hear 
At morn by the shore of the Assabett 
An hour ago (the night was cold and clear; 
The wind had fall'n; the moon had not yet set) 
Gave hail here by the Chesapeake, We sat 
At whist — Pearl's deal. What else would we be at 
Where Time's slow windlass draws the days like links 
Of anchor-chains? Pearl deals, but sees not, thinks 
Not of the flight of cards her deft hand sends; 
For on the hearth her steady gaze she bends. 

As if beyond the updrawn veil of flame 
She saw green meadows, heard the blue-birds sing 
In orchards white, and felt the airs of Spring 
Steal softly back the wayward course they came. 

Once round the house a wandering wind did go 
In search of nooks to hold the coming snow; 
Once bayed the dog to prove his vigil kept, 

But when the moonlit farm gave back no sound. 
He shook his shaggy sides, barked low, and slept. 

Within, the cards clicked on the table round; 
We heard the clock's pulse rise, and pause, and fall 
Into the fathomless deep that swallows all; 
(28) 



A NOVEMBER NIGHT 29 

And Silence seemed, with her mute lips apart, 
About to tell the secret of her heart. 
Hark! Hear the challenge! How from farm to farm, 
Along the watch-dog's cordon, spreads the alarm! 
Now leaps the wind a-tree-top; the gaunt limbs toss 
It back, and baffled now, and all at loss. 
It goes its zigzag way across the clearing. 
Whistling folk up, and leaving them a-fearing. 

Then stood we shivering in the night-air cold, 

And heard a sound, as if a chariot rolled 

Groaning adown the heavens; and lo! o'erhead, 

Twice, thrice the wild geese cried; then on they sped. 

O'er field and wood and bay, towards southern seas; 

So low they flew that on the forest trees 

Their strong wings splashed a spray of moonlight white; 

So straight they flew, so fast their steady fhght, 

True as an arrow they sailed down the night; 

Like lights blown out they vanished from the sight. 

E'en while we gazed, and listened, field and shore 
And nearer folds grew quiet as before. 
Only the awakened brook, before it slept 
Again, murmured a little; the watch-dog crept 

Back to his kennel, where he barked no more; 
And Pearl, her cherry lips all changed to white, 
Pale, passionless, and beautiful as night. 

On the Ht landscape softly closed the door. 



TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 

THE tall Green Tree its shadow cast 
Upon Howe's army, that southward passed 
From Gordon's Ford to the Quaker town; 
Intending in quarters to settle down 
Till snows were gone, and spring again 
Should easier make a new campaign. 

Beyond the fences, that lined the way, 

The fields of Captain Richardson lay; 

His woodland and meadows reached far and wide. 

From the hills behind to the Schuylkill's side; 

Across the stream, in the mountain gorge. 

He could see the smoke of the Valley Forge. 

The captain had fought in the frontier war; 
When the fight was done, bearing seam and scar, 
He marched back home to tread once more 
The same tame round he had trod before. 
And turn his thoughts, with sighs of regret. 
To ploughshares, wishing them sword-blades yet. 

He put the meadow in corn that year. 
And swore till his blacks were white with fear; 
(30) 



TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 31 

He ploughed, and planted, and married a wife, 
But life grew weary with inward strife; 
His blood was hot, and his throbbing brain 
Beat with the surf of some far main. 

Should he sack a town, or rob the mail, 
Or on the wide seas a pirate sail? 
He pondered it over, concluding instead 
To buy three steeds, in Arabia bred; 
On Sopus, Fearnaught, or Scipio, 
He felt his blood more evenly flow. 

To his daughter Tacey the coming days 

Brought health and beauty and graceful ways; 

He taught her to ride his fleetest steed 

At a five-barred fence, or a ditch at need, 

And the captain's horses, his hounds, and his child 

Were famous from sea to forests wild. 

In the fall they chased the fox to his den. 

Or in spring they followed the fishermen 

To the shore of Richardson's Island near. 

Where the shad were entangled with seine and weir; 

In winter away, when frosts were white, 

They came safe home at candle-light. 

By the great wide hearth, where the firelight fell. 
In long winter evenings, the captain would tell 



32 TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 

Some marvellous tale from his well-stocked store, 
And he fought his Indian battles o'er, 
With andirons and tongs to show the stockade, 
And just where the first assault was made; 

Or he read from the Bible, that stood on the shelf, 
Some soul-stirring story. It pleased himself, 
And enforced his saying, that women should be 
Prepared, whatsoever the emergency; 
Till the fire burned low, the room grew cold. 
And the Rittenhouse clock the tenth hour told. 

So the seasons changed, and once each week, 

Through spring and summer and winter bleak. 

Beyond the cross-roads a horn blew clear, 

The horn of the mounted postman near. 

And he hurled from his seat, as he passed the door, 

The Pennsylvania Gazette that he bore. 

It told of estrays and runaway slaves. 
Of vendues, treaties with Indian braves; 
That the city folk resolutions had passed 
Of non-importation; it brought the last 
Tidings from London, the first news of war, 
And later — Howe's army marched by the door. 

Master and man from home were gone, 
And Fearnaught held the stables alone, 



TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 33 

And Mistress Tacey her spirit showed, 
The morning the British came down the road: 
She hid the silver, and drove the cows 
To the island, behind the willow-boughs. 

Was time too short? Or did she forget 
That Fearnaught stood in the stables yet? 
Across the fields, to the gate, she ran, 
And followed the path of the grape-arbor span; 
On the door-step she paused, and turned, to see 
The head of the line beneath the Green Tree. 

The last straggler passed; the night came on. 
And then 'twas discovered that Fearnaught was gone; 
Some time, somehow, from his stall he was led. 
Where an old gray horse was left in his stead. 
And Tacey must prove to her father that she 
Had been prepared for the emergency. 

For the words he scattered on kind soil fell, 
And Tacey had learned his maxims well 
In the stories he read. She remembered the art 
That concealed the fear in Esther's heart; 
How the words of the woman, Abigail, 
Appeased the king's wrath; the deed of Jael; 

How Judith went from the city's gate, 
Across the plain, as the day grew late, 



34 TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 

To the tent of the great Assyrian, 

The leader exalted with horse and man, 

And brought back his head; said Tacey, ''Of course 

A more diflScult feat than to bring back a horse." 

In the English camp the reveille drum 

Told the sleeping troops that the dawn had come, 

And the shadows abroad, with the night still blent, 

At the drum's tap startled, crept under each tent. 

As Tacey ran from the sheltering wood. 

Across the wet grass where the horse-pound stood. 

Hark! was it the twitter of frightened bird, 
Or was it the challenge of sentry she heard? 
She entered unseen, but her footsteps she stayed 
When the old gray horse, in the wood still, neighed; 
Half hid in the mist a shape loomed tall, 
A steed that answered her well-known call. 

With freedom beyond for the recompense, 
She sprang to his back, and leaped the fence. 
Too late the alarm; but Tacey heard. 
As she sped away, how the camp was stirred, — 
The stamping of horses, the shouts of men. 
And the bugle's impatient call again. 

Loudly and fast on the Ridge Road beat 
The regular fall of Fearnaught's feet; 



TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 35 

On his broad bare back his rider's seat 

Was as firm as the tread of the steed so fleet; 

Small need of saddle, or bridle-rein, 

He answered as well her touch on his mane. 

On down the hill, by the river shore, 
Faster and faster she rode than before; 
Her bonnet fell back, her head was bare. 
And the river breeze, that freed her hair. 
Dispersed the fog, and she heard the shout 
Of the troopers behind when the sun came out. 

The wheel at Van Deering's had dripped nearly dry, 
In Sabbath-like stillness the morning passed by; 
Then the clatter of hoofs came down the hill, 
And the white old miller ran out from the mill. 
But he only saw, through the dust of the road, 
The last red-coat that faintly showed. 

To Tacey, the sky, and the trees, and the wind 
Seemed all to rush towards her, and follow behind; 
Her lips were set firm, and pale was her cheek. 
As she plunged down the hill and through the creek; 
The tortoise-shell comb that she lost that day 
The Wissahickon carried away. 

On the other side, up the stony hill. 
The feet of Fearnaught went faster still; 



36 TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 

But somewhat backward the troopers fell, 
For the hill and the pace began to tell 
On their horses, worn with a long campaign 
O'er rugged mountains and weary plain. 

The road was deserted, for, when men fought, 
A secret path the traveller sought; 
Two scared idlers in Levering's Inn 
Fled to the woods at the coming din; 
The watch-dog ran to bark his delight. 
But pursued and pursuers were out of sight. 

Surely the distance between them increased. 

And the shouts of the troopers had long since ceased; 

One after another pulled his rein, 

And rode, with great oaths, to the camp again; 

Oft a look backward Tacey sent 

To the fading red of the regiment. 

She heard the foremost horseman call; 
She saw the horse stumble, the rider fall; 
She patted her steed, and checked his pace. 
And leisurely rode the rest of the race; 
When the Seven-Stars' sign before her showed, 
Behind, not a trooper was on the road. 

In vain had they shouted who followed in chase, 
In vain their wild ride. So ended the race. 



TACEY RICHARDSON'S RACE 37 

Though fifty strong voices may clamor and call, 
If she hear not the strongest, she hears not them all; 
Though fifty fleet horses go galloping fast. 
One swifter than all shall be farthest at last. 

Said the well-pleased captain, when he came home: 
"The steed shall be thine and a new silver comb; 
'Twas a daring deed and bravely done." 
As proud of the praise as the promise won, 
The maiden stole from the house to feed, 
With a generous hand, her gallant steed. 

Unavailing the storms of the century beat 
With the roar of thunder, or winter's sleet; 
The mansion still stands, and is heard, as of yore, 
The wind in the trees on the island's shore: 
But the restless river its shore line wears, 
And no longer the island its old name bears. 

The Green Tree spreads its shelter of shade 

O'er children at play where their forefathers played, 

And in Providence still abide her race, 

Brave youths with her courage, fair maids with her grace; 

Undaunted they stand when fainter hearts flee. 

Prepared, whatsoever the emergency. 



THE FALLING OF THE DEW 

HERE'S a wraith that chaseth the twilight hour, — 

A wraith, as the foam of the breakers white, 
That seeketh the lawn, but avoideth the bower. 
That is sad, and her tears are the dews of the night. 



T 



There is spray on her hair, and her feet are bare, 
Tho' chill is the East, whence she taketh her flight. 

Whence the sea sent her forth, and its woe and despair 
Are changed in her tears to the dews of the night. 

To the famished fields of the Lord of the Day, 

By night she bringeth a keen delight; 
Athirst, — and they drink, but she cannot delay 

While they drink of her tears in the dews of the night. 

Ah! Cool is her breath as the forehead of Death, 
And the cheek of my lady turns pale and white. 

As unseen, and in silence, swift passeth the wraith. 
And sheddeth her tears in the dews of the night. 

And the blithe heart is sad, tho' it cannot tell why, 
When the hills, through the casement, grow dim on the 
sight, 
In the hour when the wraith of the sea draweth nigh, 
With the woe of the sea and the dews of the night. 
(38) 



THE PALLING OF THE DEW 39 

And mortals aweary with burdens of fears, 
And sorrows that sink on the heart like a blight, 

Still love best the hour when the day disappears, 
And the dews on the valley fall with the night. 



ST. JAMES', PERKIOMEN 

SOUTHWARD ten miles and Eastward ten, 
From stream to forest, hill, and plain, 
Where browsed the deer and bear had den, 
The planter held his fair demesne. 
"Here build the church," he said, "to stand 

When we are gone! Our people need 
The Word of God. " He gave the land; 
His fervor gave the builders speed. 

The massive altar soon was hewed 

By strong arms from the walnut tree; 
The Book of Prayer Queen Anne, the Good, 

From England sent across the sea. 
Rich in its rehcs, glebe and graves, 

And memories and oak trees old, 
The church of strong foundation braves 

The touch of time and moss and mold. 

Windows and doors are open flung 
To every summer breeze that blows, 

And where last year the oriole swung 
Again his liquid fluting flows. 
(40) 



ST. JAMES', PERKIOMEN 41 

Soft breeze, sweet incense of the grass 

And perfect song of swaying bird — 
All these are prayers, which upward pass, 

And praises, spoken not, yet heard. 



Forever Time's processional 

Leaves to some past each new time throng: 
The Oxford scholar from Moore Hall, 

The "Saintly White" of Wordsworth's song, 
Founders and clergy, wardens fade: 

(State Guardian, well you guard their fanes!) 
Into the shadow glides each shade, 

The churchmen go; the church remains. 

Here, Sons of God went forth to War 

Against a host of humble foes, 
And answered duty's call before 

They found beneath the church repose; 
And bolder warriors by the wall, 

Unnamed, within their green tents sleep; 
Dying, they found here hospital, 

And here imbroken bivouac keep. 

Hushed was the loosened drum's tattoo 
And hushed his heart for whom it beat; 

Not yet had spear of grass come through 
The clods above his head and feet. 



42 ST. JAMES', PERKIOMEN 

When at the gate two churchmen took 
The faint, new path to Howard's grave: 

Grief marked the Warden- Colonel's look; 
Said Washington, "The man was brave." 



These fought to give the nation birth, 

And these to make the nation whole. 
Time's circles, each a century's girth, 

How swift around the church they roll! 
Sailor! who cruised the fiery seas 

And heard on all the broadsides crash, 
Hath Heaven more lovely vales than these 

Or hills where lights more glorious flash! 

On these your soldier brother looks 

With eye made dim by unshed tear; 
He shared your play, you shared his books, 

And neither knew what men call fear. 
Clear from the Rapidan's red shores 

To the South Anna and the James, 
And where the Appomattox pours 

Its frequent dews on deathless fames, 

His sabre through the battles sang 

With swords that clove the bells of peace. 

Peace! Peace! The belfry, trembling, rang 
Its pasan, waiting for release; 



ST. JAMES', PER KIO MEN 43 

And o'er the fields its pealing held 

One mother-heart's unshaken faith, 
Although the rifle-blast had felled 

Six sons — her all — in battle death. 



A tropic sea and Christmas morn, 

And Five Bells on the Admiral's ship! 
(In yonder Rectory was he born, 

Where towards the creek the low hills dip.) 
A thousand miles and fifty years, 

Back to this scene his thought takes wing; 
Again his father's voice he hears 

In sermon, psalm or christening. 

Then on the ships throughout the fleet 

The Admiral, captains, sailors say 
The collect churchmen here repeat 

At the same hour on Christmas Day. 
Who learn to serve, they best can lead 

Across the waste; who pray, best find 
The star which giveth heart and speed 

In deserts of the human mind. 

They served as well, who never knew 
The joy of onslaught in the fray, 

Who in their quiet valley drew 
A life-long burden day by day. 



44 ST. JAMES', PERKIOMEN 

Thus in some combat, great or small, 
The children of the church went forth, 

And who shall say what bugle call, 
What service hath the greater worth. 



THE PERKIOMEN 

HERE, in times long gone, October bright 
In sombre forests set her glory light; 
Where village street leads o'er the bridge's span. 
Among brown hills and peaceful meadows ran 
The Perkiomen, singing all the day. 

For well-tilled fields gave back a hundred-fold, 
And well-filled barns could scarce their treasure hold; 
The orchards, bending 'neath the weight they bore. 
Cast down their golden fruit upon the shore 
Of Perkiomen, singing all the day. 

There came a change: the leaves upon the wood 
Burned brighter with a color as of blood; 
The waving northern lights, the camp-fires' glow, 
Seemed from the heights a tinge of blood to throw 
On Perkiomen at the close of day. 

At morn a host marched proudly to the fight; 
And some returned their camp-fires to relight, 
And some to hear awhile the waters flow; 
Then ears grew dull in coming death, and low 
The Perkiomen sang on that dread day. 

(45) 



46 THE PERKIOMEN 

And prayers in many distant homes were said 
By hearts that ne'er again were comforted; 
While here the soldier saw in dreams again 
Home scenes, made vivid by the sad refrain 
Of Perkiomen, singing all the day. 

Yet 'mid the gloom and doubt the living learned 
How still defeat to victory might be turned; 
Until the cannon thundered from the hill 
A conquest's tale, and glad below the mill 
The Perkiomen sang on that great day. 

But nature soon forgets: that camp is lost; 
She hides the graves of all that armed host; 
On the same site now stands another mill; 
Another miller leans on the white sill 
To hear the Perkiomen sing to-day. 

Let not our hearts forget. Lo! Time makes plain 
How from the sacrifice has grown our gain. 
Here orchards bloom; each year its harvest brings, 
And clearer still of peace and plenty sings 
The Perkiomen all the autumn day. 



THE OLD CHURCH AT THE TRAPPE 

Qualis et quantus fucrit non ignorabunt sine lapide 
futura ScEcula 

IN the heat of a day in September 
We came to the old church door; 
We bared our heads, I remember, 
On the step that the moss covered o'er: 
There the vines climbed over and under, 
And we trod, with a reverent wonder, 

Through the dust of the years on the floor. 

From the dampness and darkness and stillness 

No resonant chantings outrolled; 
And the air, with its vaporous chillness. 

Covered altar and column with mould; 
For the pulpit had lost its old glory. 
And its greatness become but a story, — 

A legend still lovingly told. 

O'er the graves, 'neath the long, waving grasses, 
In summer the winds lightly blow, 

And the phantoms come forth from the masses 
Of deep-tangled ivy that grow; 

Through the aisles at midnight they wander, — 

At noon of the loft they are fonder, — 

Unhindered they come and they go. 

(47) 



48 THE OLD CHURCH AT THE TRAPPE 

And it seemed that a breath of a spirit, 
Like a zephyr at cool of the day, 

Passed o'er us, and then we could hear it 
In the loft through the organ-pipes play; 

All the aisles and the chancel seemed haunted, 

And weird anthems by voices were chanted 
Where dismantled the organ's pipes lay. 

Came the warrior who, robed as a colonel, 
Led his men to the fight from the prayer; 

And the pastor who tells in his journal 

What he saw in the sunlight's bright glare — 

How a band of wild troopers danced under, 

While the organ was peeling its thunder 
In gay tunes on the sanctified air. 

And Gottlieb, colonial musician, 
Once more had come over the seas, 

And sweet to the slave and patrician 
Were the sounds of his low melodies; 

Once again came the tears, the petition, 

Soul-longings and heart-felt contrition, 
At his mystical touch on the keys. 

There joined in the prayers of the yeomen 
For the rulers and high in command. 

The statesman, who prayed that the foeman 
Might perish by sea and by land; 



THE OLD CHURCH AT THE TRAPPE 49 

And flowers from herbariums elysian 
Long pressed, yet still sweet, in the vision 
Were strewn by a spiritual hand. 

There were saints, — there were souls heavy-laden 
With the burden of sins unconfessed; 

In the shadow there lingered a maiden, 
With a babe to her bosom close pressed, 

And the peace that exceeds understanding. 

Borne on odors of blossoms expanding, 
Forever abode in her breast. 

Then hushed were the prayers and the chorus, 
As we gazed through the gloom o'er the pews; 

And the phantoms had gone from before us 
By invisible, dark avenues; 

And slowly we passed through the portals. 

In awe from the haunts of immortals. 

Who had vanished like summer's light dews. 

O church, that of old proudly flourished! 

Thy shadow moves outward, and falls 
O'er the founders by whom thou wert nourished. 

Thou art mute, and thy silence recalls, 
As no stone could narrate to the ages, 
The good works of thy pioneer sages. 

Who from labor rest under thy walls. 



BECALMED 

BEFORE the blast, that sweeps the bay 
And blufif, the pine-trees sway; 
Hoar harpers they, 
Whose harmonies sweet 
Rise with the waves that beat 
And break around the harpers' feet. 

Cold is the hearth of the hostel old; 

The heart of home is cold; 

A-field, in fold, 

All green things grow 

Uncropped, and long ago 

The wharf slipped in the slow tide's flow. 

In their low beds the people sleep, — 

Sleep while the shadows creep 

Down caverns deep. 

"Wake! While ye lie 

In dreams the sails go by! 

Wake! Wake! 'Tis day; the sun is high." 

No call can now, nor sobs could make 

Who sleep in death awake, 

Or their dreams break. 

The sails are gone; 

Hope, love hope builded on, 

Swift joy and pain — all, all are done. 

(50) 



I 



HA! HA! AND HA! HA! INDEED I 

N the young days of this old hall 

The men wore buckles and garments brighter, 
And the dames head-dresses somewhat less tall 
Than their colored coachmen, and powdered whiter. 



'Tis said that here to this same old hall 
The county gentry their way once wended. 

Some few dames alone, but be sure that all 
On their homeward ride were well attended. 

They came to a froHc, a dance and dinner, 
Where wines and viands were equally good. 

Followed by cards; the gains of the winner 
Were long the talk of the neighborhood. 

At the music made by the slaves of Mount Pleasant, 
Now weird and wild, now soft and clear. 

The pine-trees hushed their moaning incessant. 
And the waves ran silent ashore to hear. 

Now, among the rest who came to the rout 
Were the colonel, the squire, and the squire's pretty 
daughter 
(One could see the old miracle turned about 
In the squire's weak eyes, where wine changed to 
water). 

(51) 



52 HA! HA! AND HA! HA! INDEED! 

A quarrel arose at the turn of a card 

Between the two men, and words waxed warmer 

(The fainting daughter came to in the yard 
Ere aught occurred to really alarm her). 

Said the doughty squire, and his speech was broken 
With laughter, "Ha! ha!— A good jest this." 

"Ha! ha! Indeed!" was the answer spoken, 
And a sword-blade rattled the emphasis. 

At once at the tone and sneer and gesture. 

Since if blood were spilled t'would soil the floors, 

The squire suggested they doff their vesture, 
And settle the quarrel alone, out of doors. 

Just as the night-winds fanned the flame 
Of day on the bay-sands, 'till it faded, 

Whence a star like a fawn from its cover came. 
Through the dew on the grass the two men waded- 

Away from the hall and towards the hill 

To the field where the pines are waving yonder; 

Some guests grew sober, and all were still 
In the house as the moments passed in wonder. 

While they heard the tones of scornful laughter 
Faint and far over the fields recede, — 

''Ha! ha! Ha! ha!" and quickly came after 
The sneering answer, "Ha! ha! Indeed!" 



HA! HA! AND HA! HA! INDEED! 53 

Thus the pair passed out of sight forever. 

Mysterious I Yes. They tottered, some say, 
Over the bank in the bend of Bush River. 

However that is, to this very day 

Are heard in the fields on the hill each night, 
Above the soughing of pine-trees mournful, 

A laugh, "Ha! ha!" that is merry and bright, 

And a "Hal ha! Indeed!'^ that is sad and scornful. 

"Ha! ha!" laughs loudest and longest, but wait 
Till the mirth is dead and the laughter over, 

"Ha! ha! IndeedF' either soon or late. 
Always laughs last, as you may discover. 



AT THE SIGN OF THE RED ROSE 

WITHIN the doorway of the inn 
The host sat smoking at day's close; 
He could not see the smoke wreaths thin, 
Nor on the sign the painted rose, 
And a white line but faintly showed 
Where through the darkness ran the road; 

O'er which, in state, some hours before, 
A coach, drawn by four horses gray, 

No other than the governor, 

Refreshed, had borne upon his way. 

Well might the host recount his gain 

From meat and drink for all that train. 

And let his fancies run like vines 

Upon the framework of content, 
All in and out, o'er old designs, 

That 'mongst new plans were permanent. 
Well satisfied he rose at last, 
And made each door and window fast. 

Threw back the cover from the well, 
Drew the dark dripping bucket up, 

And stooped to dip the cocoa-shell; — 
Surprise dashed down the undrained cup; 

(54) 



AT THE SIGN OF THE RED ROSE 55 

It quenched, with splash of water cool, 
Each mirrored star within the pool. 

In sharp, quick volleys, close at hand. 
O'er the hard highway horse-hoofs beat; 

Up hill and down, on stone and sand. 
Now rang, now crunched, the unshodden feet, 

And somewhere in the pebbled stream 

Ceased, as the passing of a dream. 

If there one rider raised his blade 

As he o'ertook a fleeing foe, 
It fell into a sheath of shade 

That hid the horsemen, blade and blow; 
Nor have the mornings since revealed 
A trace of what the night concealed. 

Meanwhile, the host of the Red Rose, 
Hearing the horse-hoofs still draw near, 

Waited, and wondered long that those 
Who rode so fast should not appear. 

And watched the woods as men, in vain, 

Watch thunder-clouds that bring no rain. 

The sounds had ceased; that which appalled 
Him passed; as still grew wood and plain, 

As if the clear star voice had called, 
That nature waits to hear again; 



56 AT THE SIGN OF THE RED ROSE 

The hand he held behind his ear 
Still trembled with the pulse of fear. 

Only a flutter of leaves he hears — 
The flutter of leaves along a wind 

That moves the mist to sudden tears; 
It sweeps the crannies of the mind, 

And drives him from the moon's slant beams, 

To see the scene again in dreams. 

Year after year, when the round moon 
Of autumn shone through the white mist, 

Red as the fiery sun at noon, 

A phantom horse came from the east; 

Obeying a phantom rider's hand. 

It dashed across the meadow-land; 

A clatter on the stony road, — 
A splash of water in the run, — 

But not an imprint daylight showed 
Where sound had stopped, or where begun; 

It came — the flavored punch grew cold, 

The favorite tale was stopped half told. 

No child could sleep when sire had said, 
"The spectre horseman rides to-night;" 

Though once at dusk the skies were red 
With many a burning homestead's light, 



AT THE SIGN OF THE RED ROSE 57 

The sentry trembled more in fear 
Of the dead than living Indians near. 

Change and decay sure triumphs boast; 

Of the old inn remains no sign 
Save its deep cellar, where the host 

Once tapped his casks of rarest wine; 
Its ghost that will not vanish, though 
The tribe were banished long ago. 

Gone, with the old-time hostelry. 
Are host and guests, and stream now dry, 

Which, 'ere they felled the last great tree 
Along its banks, had all run by; 

This last faint scent of the Red Rose, 

As one reluctant, lingers — goes. 



LEONARD KEYSER 

WHEN Leonard Keyser heard the cries 
Of grief for martyred dead, 
And saw the place of sacrifice, 
Whereto his pathway led, 
He pleaded not, with useless prayer. 

To scorning bigots near. 
But plucked a flower that bloomed so fair 
It made the waste more drear. 

One flower had there escaped the breath 

That swept the withered land: 
God's symbol of a life from death. 

He held it in his hand. 
"If ye have power," he spake, "this hour, 

With all the fires ye light 
To burn my body, or this flower, 

Then have ye done aright." 

His eyes upraised saw not the glare 

Of torch on hooting crowd. 
But far above the fagots' flare 

A rift within the cloud, — 
(58) 



LEONARD KEYSER 59 

A promise sent from God on high 

That Hate should surely fail: 
No wrath could then His power defy, 

Nor in the end prevail. 

We seek not, Lord, to know the spell 

That wrought Thy will divine; 
We know Thou doest all things well; 

The miracle was Thine 
To cause the bonds to fall, — to take 

From death all trace of pain 
And mark of fire, and then to make 

The flower to bloom again. 

The fagots' blaze, like noontide hours, 

Gave vigor to Truth's germ. 
And tears but seemed the summer showers 

To make its root more firm. 
Upon the Inn's dark ebbing tide 

The Martyr's corse was thrown, 
A witness of his creed he died, 

A faith his children own. 

Upon those waves the good ships bore 

Truth's fruitage to the sea. 
Whose surges broke upon this shore 

Of Peace and Liberty. 



60 LEONARD KEYSER 

And thou, O God! whose hollowed hand 

Upheld the troubled sea 
Whereon our sires sailed to this land, 

We lift our prayers to Thee — 

To ask that for these kinsmen here 

Thou wilt extend Thy care, 
As when Thou mad'st the rift appear 

Above the fagots' flare; 
We thank Thee for Thy blessings given 

To all this gathered throng. 
And sing Thy praises unto Heaven 

In one triumphant song. 



IN WINTER QUARTERS 

GRANDCHILDREN, you must not forget 
That the Marquis de La Fayette 
Beneath this roof once slept and ate, 
Yes, and often at table the Aide 
Of the Marquis smiled on the pretty maid 
Who filled their glasses. From the gate 
They shook the snow each morning gray, 
And towards the camp they rode away, 
And, when the evening drill was done, 
Dismounted here at set of sun. 

One morn the Marquis rode, but the Aide — 
"J'ai mat," or something like that he said. 
He took French leave; at home he stayed. 
And fretted, and fumed, and hindered the maid. 
At eve the Marquis, as often before, 
Climbed the high stairway, opened the door. 
And silently looked across the room: 
Somewhere he heard, from the twilight gloom, 
A scream, and saw the impudent Aide 
Seize and kiss his serving maid. 

Nothing the Marquis said to the Aide; 
Nothing he said to the struggling maid; 

(61) 



62 IN WINTER QUARTERS 

But down the steep stairs, out into the snow,- 
I laugh, but, ah, it was long ago, — 
Down these same steps, o'er yonder path. 
He booted the Aide in his sudden wrath. — 
Then all at once four voices said, 
"Why, grandma, you were the pretty maid! 
But what of the Aide?" — With never a glance 
Turned backward, straight he sailed to France. 



THE BURYING-GROUND 

(Axe's Graveyard, Germantown) 

HERE is the burying-ground, hid from the street, 
Hemmed in, its entrance barred, its exit known 
Unto the dead, and unto them alone. 
No mourners tread these aisles with reverent feet. 
For all have gone where mourned and mourners greet: 
Its last forget-me-not forgot, o'ergrown; 
Over the latest grave low leans the stone; 
These records, like a book, are closed — complete. 
A simple, peaceful folk, nor ties love wrought 
At home, nor terrors of the sea could keep 
Them back. Their rugged names have never been 
Upon Fame's scroll. It matters not. They sought 
The wilderness, subdued it, and they sleep 
As if their loved Rhine kept the grave-grass green. 



(63) 



I 



THE PINEY 

NTO the pines and out of the pines 

Foot-deep the sand-road flows; 
Out of the pines and into the pines 
The woodman's wagon goes. 



His sheet-bow top, that clears his head 

By a scant inch or two, 
Shuts out the morning sun's mild rays, 

And lets the fierce noon's through. 

Each house he knows along the way; 

He knows the back way in, 
And in mysterious cellars finds. 

And fills the fuel-bin. 

He knows where in the swamp's recess 
The crimson cranberry grows. 

And where above those cool, still pools 
The blueberries hang he knows. 

He stays not on the bridge to see 

The red Rancocas run, 
And leaping sweep from garden walls 

The ripened rose of June; 
(64) 



THE PINEY 65 

Nor follows in his thought the stream, 

The coves and village past — 
Past many a meadow till it sinks 

In vaster deeps at last. 

Back slowly where home sunsets bum 

The woodman's wagon goes. 
The current of bis habit ebbs 

The even way it flows. 



GOOD TIMES 

ONCE more along the valley 
The furnace-fires gleam bright, 
And the forgeman comes across the hills 
And follows the beckoning light; 
Guided by columns of smoke by day, 
By pillars of fire at night. 

Half-way he meets the shadows 

That hide the valley green, 
But down by the flow of the river below 

He hears the welcome din 
Of labor that fills with joy the homes 

Where care so long has been. 

Ho! Want lies down a-dying, 

Ho! Let the old wolf die! 
Laughter is light as the furnace-flame. 

And together they leap to the sky 
On a way so yellow and red and white 

That the stars all fade on high. 

And the child of Thor gives thanks to the Christ 
Who hath answered his prayer for bread, 
(66) 



GOOD TIMES 67 

Who hath sent new zest for Hfe to his breast, 
And hope that he thought lay dead; 

Rejoice! Now Hunger gives up the chase, 
And the man comes in ahead. 

How Ught shall seem the labor 

For wife and children three. 
How sweet the rest when day is done 

And he shares his children's glee! 
And hail to the morn when his babe shall be born! 

His babe will welcome be. 



AFTER THE PROPOSAL 

I KNOW a little street, just wide 
Enough to have a sunny side; 
Within the gardens all a-row 
The vines creep 'round and roses grow. 
Come, sweet, and see, and say if you 
Think house so small full large for two. 
Tho' small, no doubt there's room in it 
To look around and bide a bit — 
To bide a bit for hope to grow. 
There is not room for pride or show; 
There's room for love and love's increase; 
There's room to bar out strife with peace; 
There's room to give and take and share; 
The cares to come there's room to bear; 
But none for envy, none to care 
What neighbors do or what they wear. 
If no gay teams prance past our door, 
We'll inward turn our thoughts the more; 
If each serves each. Love's retinue 
Will make the service Ught and true. 
All space and Ufe will crowded be 
With one sweet guest, felicity; 
And narrow street will stretch away 
To hill-tops whence the bright dawns stray. 
(68) 



THE TANGLED STRINGS 

INTO oblivion sink the fames, 
Fears and follies, loves and hates, 
Forgotten are the sounding names, 
Motives, deeds, and battle dates. 

Swords and books and Bishop's rings! 

Fast they fall upon the pile 
Of the world's discarded things, 

Of little use a little while. 

Torn the canvas from the frame! 

Painters, sculptors! Where are they 
Who kept alive the sacred flame? 

Dead is the art of yesterday. 

Wisdom gathers at the curb, 

Craft of state from whittled sticks, 

Physic from the poppy herb, 
Law from rag-time politics. 

Poem, romance and symphony! 

Broke the harp of tangled strings! 
Finished is the tragedy, 

Complete the age of common things. 

(69) 



THE SHIP OF STATE 

WHAT of the Ship of State? It also rides 
Full speed a floe-filled sea, and it is night. 
This greater ship of more gigantic might, 
Shall it drive onward while the darkness hides 
To that last plunge which in the darkness bides, 
Dulled to the danger hidden from the sight. 
Deaf to the solemn warnings that affright, 
Unheedful of the startled voice that chides? 

Captain about to mount the bridge, take heed! 
Hear you the protests round the plunging prow 
Made by the discontented deep? Astern 
Lies the fair port of every human need, 
O'er what uncharted course, to what port now 
The good ship heads no Lookout may discern. 



(70) 



JOHN ERICSSON 

SWEDEN! Make bare thy mother breast, 
And from his couch, rocked by the main, 
Take to thy bosom for his rest 
Thy Viking son come home again! 

Twice Norsemen served the new world; first 
Ere Colon came; but best at last. 

When inward fires to fury burst, 
His fleet her foreign foes held fast. 

With Earth's long-prisoned powers, set free, 
And gathered in his wizard hand, 

He cleared the highway on the sea, 
And locked the harbors of the land. 

Two countries claim, two contments keep, 
The fame of shot from turret hurled. 

Which made him monitor of the deep, 
And his the navies of the world. 

At peace that inland water flows; 

The war ship rusts beneath the sea. 
But still its wake of wonders glows 

Like Peter's path on Galilee. 

(71) 



72 JOHN ERICSSON 

The loftiest of thy sea-king race 
Rejoins the level of the strain; 

The old world's heart his burial place, 
And new-world thoughts his funeral train. 



BRIDLE PATHS 



73 



Copyright, 191 1, by Christopher Sower Company 



Part I 
Boot, Saddle, To Horse, and Away! 



IN the spring sunshine and the sudden shower 
Across the storied land the horsemen rode. 
Three leagues away they saw the city's tower, 

Set by the tidal stream which seaward flowed, 
The first of many rivers to be crossed — 

By steamboat, bridge, rope-ferry, or by ford — 
Before they climbed the mountain range and lost 

The springs on heights where the lone eagle soared. 
They were not many those who rode — not more 

Than could find shelter in a rural inn 
Should court-week crowd it to the outer door, 

When the great dinner gong let loose its din — 
Somewhat at discord with their times, now drawn 

Together by their common tastes and set 
Upon a journey in the season's dawn, 

While orchards were in bloom, and fields were wet 
With greenness. Journeys of such length, and made 

In such a way, were usual once; but now 
Men paused to stare at the small cavalcade; 

The farm-hand in the furrow stopped his plow. 
And passing horses shied at saddle-bags 

And the rolled rubber capes on saddle bows. 
Within the villages the village wags 

Stood on the village paths in straggling rows 
79 



80 BRIDLE PATHS 

And laughed at the strange spectacle of men, 

Some eight in number, mounted and equipped 
For a month's ride in any weather. When 

The setting sun behind the cloud bank slipped, 
Taking his gold from every roof and spire. 

The horsemen, turning from the crowded street, 
Where curious eyes might scan their strange attire, 

O'er highways trodden by more humble feet. 
Reached, on the city's edge, a drovers' inn. 

And stabled there the horses for the night. 
Next morn their real journey would begin, 

Bringing each day some unfamiliar sight; 
But now they sought a club house, small and quaint, 

Midway upon an alley, o'er the door 
A swinging head, well done in cracking paint. 

Bare was the board of damask, and the floor 
Was bare; but there was space for a good blaze 

Within the fireplace. The low walls were hung 
With relics, seeming to pierce through that haze. 

Which to a fading past has ever clung, 
The poet's script, the sculptor's plaque or bust. 

The artist's sketch and books in cases shut, 
Each volume gathering undisturbed its dust. 

Its pages never read or even cut: 
For all these volumes on the crowded shelves, 

Essay or poem, history or romance. 
The members of the club had writ themselves, 

And no one thought the others' worth a glance. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 81 

It was a place to linger in, for cheer, 

Plain food, and fire and comfort ripened talk; 
And as the air grew thick, the mind grew clear. 

There, too, was Fancy on high stilts to stalk 
Forward in time or backward through the past. 

By the mind's shuttle carried to and fro, 
An airy woof and warp of wit was cast 

Across the table from the talk's swift flow. 
One with a napkin laid upon the board 

Made plain the saddle blanket's triplicate fold 
Which saddle-gall from every horse would ward. 

A tale equestrian over-long was told, 
And while some listened, others partly heard. 

The warrior bold, a guardsman, next recalled 
The feat of Grant, the soldier, when he spurred 

His horse across a bridge, through wagons stalled, 
Past marching troops and up a winding lane; 

Then turning as a runaway battery team, 
All riderless, approached him, seized a rein 

And ran the horses straight into the stream. 
Brief silence followed. The Historian praised 

The anecdote. "Good in itself," he said, 
"And bearing on the theme, a quality raised 

By rarity to high merit. Light that's shed 
With naught to see is economic loss." 

Encouraged by his hearers' smiles, he told 
The story of young Pearson's ride across 

The Western plains, which, undulating, rolled 



82 BRIDLE PATHS 

Behind the rider, sixty miles a day 

For thirty days — horses and rider fed 
By the bare wilderness — berries to allay 

Man's hunger — Indians in their war paint red, 
Starting their signal fires along his route. 

Across the stream or round the mountain's edge. 
Avoiding ambush, shaking off pursuit, 

Escaping perils of the ford and ledge. 
From camp to capital, young Pearson rode, 

And back again, was lifted from his horse, 
And is forgotten in the fame bestowed 

Upon the foot-ball field or motor course. 
Nine hundred miles he rode to say that war 

Was on again, nine hundred miles rode back 
To make the warning known. Never before 

Or since was ride like that on such a track. 
The Preacher's bearded face was wreathed in smiles, 

"I must admit," he said, "some slight fatigue 
From riding slowly but a score of miles. 

To ride two thousand, and between whiles dig 
For roots, appalls me. As we rode today. 

Between the village homes, I thought, no man 
Who sees a land by eye alone can say 

He knows that land. To know it he must scan 
The graveyard stones, follow the flowing streams, 

Observe the hills, study the plants, the stones, 
And soil, and recreate the futile dreams 

Of men who now are naught but a few bones. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 83 

I seldom walk the wide-famed street which leads 

Toward the Delaware, but I seem to see, 
In stately progress, men of other breeds 

Than our age knows. Breeched only to the knee, 
Smoothfaced, with hair in cue, noiseless they haunt 

Their once familiar scenes. Out of the hall. 
Whose simple dignity leaves no vision's want 

Unsatisfied, they come. Before them, all 
Our time's embodied throng grow vague and fade; 

The pageant of the mind alone is real ; 
Then lives and moves again each deathless shade 

Bearing the sign of greatness and its seal. 
Their prayers still linger 'neath the holy towers 

Of Christ Church and St. Peter's, and are prayers 
Not for their help and guidance, but for ours. 

Whose tasks are light indeed compared with theirs. 
This afternoon our ride was o'er the King's 

Highway. Upon it Clinton's army marched 
To Monmouth and defeat. The stream which sings 

Under the bridge of stone above it arched 
Once was a combat line. There Donop made 

His last encampment. Thence he hurried on 
To Red Bank and to death. Simcoe made raid 

Along that road. By night Wayne marched upon 
It to attack a British outpost. Far 

Tho' we may ride, we shall not see a land 
So full of memories of peace and war 

As this, where they arise on every hand. 



84 BRIDLE PATHS 

To know a region one should know its songs. 

With your consent I'll read a lyric sprung 
Out of the soil, to which its theme belongs. 

Its feats of arms thus has the poet sung:" 

THE JERSEY BLUES 

Brave as the battle roll of drum, 
Strong as the surf when tempests come, 
Throbbed all the Jersey hearts of oak, 
When war upon the Jerseys broke; 
At streams, by forest springs filled up, 
Deep drinks the sea, and smites the shore; 
Deep from the brim-full bitter cup 
The soil drank the dregs of war. 

Then North or South the red coats came. 
And South and North they fled again; 
The road the Blues fell back — the same 
Way in pursuit they sped again. 
At last — at last the land was free. 
And safe once more the misty main, 
And like some soul to ecstasy. 
Rose the sweet Sabbath song again. 

Clear flow the streams, which, red with blood, 

Ran through the battle lines arrayed; 

The cross-roads' salient long withstood 

The charge above the church graves made; 

And quiet Quaker villages 

Are scenes in this historic story. 

And many a field of tillage is 

Also a field of strife and glory. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 85 

Thus from the waves was Jersey raised 
A pathway to the promised land; 
Thus shall she keep an epic phrased 
On tablets of coagulate sand; 
Her many bivouacs were dreams 
Of deeds still told, then lately done, 
And all her battlefields are gleams 
Of victories for freedom won. 

Sons of those sires! Ye soldiers who 
Bound North and South in folds of blue! 
Where, Aphrodite-like, still laves 
The sea-born State in lapsing waves. 
Firm may the arch of union rest 
Forever on her fruitful breast; 
For well wrought each artificer 
Its ocean-dashed abutment here. 



The Doctor here took up the thread of talk. 

"Men die of inactivity," he said; 
"'Drive only when there is not time to walk' 

Is a good motto for the partly dead. 
A horseback ride fills up the empty mind 

With larger thought. It takes away the fear 
Natural to man, and courage leaves behind 

To meet occasion with a vision clear; 
The motor car lets run the mind away 

To vacancy. Within an arrow's flight 
Of where we sit, the patriots of their day 

Marshalled the colonies for an eight-year fight, 



86 BRIDLE PATHS 

With greater confidence, no doubt, because 

Of days spent in the saddle. The men, who met 
To make a government, made better laws, 

With saner minds in sounder bodies set. 
Because on horseback to their task they rode 

From Baltimore, Mt. Vernon, Charleston, or 
The East. Hence the sobriety they showed. 

Their poise, their outlook wide, and hence their store 
Of wisdom. Motor cars, the telephone. 

The trolley ushered in the hysteric age 
In politics and law. Much have we done 

Of late, but little thought. The historian's page 
Perhaps will say that in our time the power 

Of thought had withered with disuse, as die 
The body's unused organs. The next hour 

May bring back sanity. Signs multiply 
'Til they mislead; but this is sure, that late 

Or soon must man make for himself a home 
In his conditions. Otherwise his fate 

Will be a wanderer on the earth to roam. 
He will be less free, not more free, as men 

Increase. Less will he own, not more. Submit 
He must. No refuge will be open then. 

No land inviting him to flee to it." 

The talk ran on, now full of hope for men, 
Of fears that skies would soon be overcast, 

Of doubt lest evil times must come again, 
Of dread of storm-clouds rising dark and fast 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 87 

From socialistic teachings of the age, 

And there was much of argument. Outside 
The travellers heard the early thunder rage, 

But hoped the morn would speed them on their ride. 
And then they turned, inquiring, to the gaunt 

And grizzled Sage, within his State a power 
Upon the hustings. Eager crowds would haunt 

The unopened doors at an untimely hour 
To hear him speak. His speech was full of wit. 

From Cape May clear to Sandy Hook his voice 
And face were known — known, too, his manly grit. 

He stirred men's laughter. Foes, if given the choice, 
Abandoned their mass meetings for the mirth 

He made in his, enjoying most the shaft 
Aimed at themselves. If close he kept to earth 

In intercourse with earthly men, he quaffed 
Deep draughts from learning's spring. Beauty he loved 

In nature and in art. His Plato knew 
And carried Omar with him when he roved. 

For men he cared less than for trees, which few 
Discovered, but abundant pity had 

He for men's dulness. In the mass he thought 
Them in the wrong, swinging from error bad 

To error, blinded by their instincts, caught 
And swept beyond the truth in passion's storm. 

But these were private thoughts, not shared with all. 
Not yet would he respond. The room was warm. 

His pipe drew well. Why let doubt's curtain fall 



88 BRIDLE PATHS 

Upon a cheerful mood? 

Close by him sat 

The Student, youngest of them all, robust 
In frame, clear-eyed, clean-skinned, lively in chat 

And chaff, and quick to parry any thrust. 
He knew the past and deemed the ages showed 

That man, though blind, toward truth would grope 
his way; 
Stumbling, perhaps, but still within the road. 

"The century's dawn is golden and not gray. 
This city where begins our pilgrimage 

Is rich in memories of men of fame. 
It saw upbuilt our common heritage, 

A government — not as men now acclaim — 
Not of the people for the people and 

By the people; but mark! a government 
Of people held in check by the wise hand 

Of law and method. When the Almighty sent 
The fathers here to make from many parts 

One nation, giving each part play, they turned 
To Holland as ship captains turn to charts 

Of waters strange, and from her history learned 
How various provinces could be combined 

To form a nation. Men in this day build 
A bridge of steel, which from the shore behind 

Grows into space. We see, with wonder filled, 
The mighty structure, balanced by its weight. 

Advancing through the air, across the flood. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 89 

So wrought the fathers when they built the State 

With balances of values understood, 
So nicely placed, that it has grown through space 

Of human need, resisting every shock. 
You say the people threaten to displace 

This structure with another; that the clock 
Has struck the hour by the wise builders' feared 

When they took care, foreseeing what we see, 
To check the multitude, lest what they reared 

Should break beneath the weight's immensity. 
You think that Presidents have been too strong 

Or else too weak; that Congress in one House 
Bows feebly to the White House; that ere long, 

Unless those who are now adrift arouse 
Themselves, the Senate yet may fail to serve 

The purpose which the fathers planned; that 
led 
By some arch demagogue, o'erstrong in nerve, 

And blind as strong, the multitude may tread 
The structure down. Far be that dismal day! 

As I have hope of Heaven, I hope, I believe 
Democracy will not so fail. You say 

The government excels the governed. Leave 
That to slow time. 'Tis true its plan is changed 

Somewhat, not for our ultimate good. No plan 
Works out by its intention. 'Tis estranged 

And without ill from its beginnings. Scan 



90 BRIDLE PATHS 

The tree's fruit planted by the altruist Penn, 

Who, wiser than his time, meant men to dwell 
In peace together. This April evening, when 

The shadow of his statue eastward fell, 
It almost reached to fields once stained with blood 

Of battle. The whole region where his law 
Of peace extended bore a snarling brood 

Of strifes unfinished; but it also saw 
A wakened world take up his thought and house 

The sick and poor. The England whence he came 
Hanged any man who stole his neighbor's cows. 

Penn substituted love for force. His frame 
Of law, his wise and true experiment, 

Expanded into tree of such great girth 
And branch that from the fires of discontent 

It sheltered the down-trodden ones of earth. 
His fame was blown through many lands. His thought, 

Greater than any fame, has taken root. 
Late tho' it be, even now are nations brought, 

For all their ships and guns and skill to shoot. 
Into the court of nations, in the land 

Where Grotius lived. The many battles fought 
Within Penn's commonwealth stayed not the hand 

On the world's dial. Impulse yields to thought 
And justice, for society contains. 

As Spencer said, within itself its own 
Corrective force. Wrong still in man remains. 

But in great groups of men, less is it shown 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 91 

Than in the atoms which make up the group. 

Correct the butcher's scales, the trader's trick. 
As yEsop taught the ingredient made the soup, 

So separate man makes body politic. 
Teach children truth at home. The church, the school 

Are not enough. Thus shall our ills decay, 
And honesty and right become the rule, 

But not by the vain methods of the day." 

The Student finished his long speech, at which 

Some shook their heads, for here and there were those 
Who beUeved in jails and penalties for the rich. 

Brief silence followed till the Sage arose, 
Turning his back upon the glowing fire, 

And said: "Our discontent is of the mind — 
A malady within, a portent dire 

Of perils greater than those left behind. 
Full many summers have I seen increase 

From bud to the full bloom and fade again. 
And many winters known succeeding these, 

Making more mindful of man's numbing pain 
Those who in growing old begin to know 

Themselves in age part alien to their kind, 
Who comprehend not where those currents flow 

Which bear them on, the while the hermit mind 
Yearns for the permanence which once earth wore. 

The rock-bound coast is definite. The tides. 
Returning, find it ever as before. 

The forest by its old law still abides; 



92 BRIDLE PATHS 

In orderly procession do the stars 

Hold to their ancient course, and nightly keep 
Their separate state. There is a power which bars 

Reprisal by the sea, and bids the deep 
Roll back. It rules the wind and guides the storm. 

Giving it speed or pause. Shall man alone 
Be uncontrolled, and shall not he conform 

To nature's law? No flock has ever flown 
From the palm islands north to Labrador, 

Nested, and followed the retreating sun, 
But what the strongest wing of all upbore 

The leader of the flight. Is the world done 
With leadership because from every marsh 

The fabled frogs still pipe their discontent 
In chorus ever louder and more harsh 

With every form of human government? 
Is this the triumph of democracy, 

That she appears a surly mendicant, 
No longer guised in meek humility. 

But riding hot behind her grossest want, 
Which statecraft hurries to anticipate? 

There have been happier times, wherein to lead 
Was not a backward walk before the hate 

Of thousands, all inflamed with petty greed, 
By their poor servitors inspired. 'Largesse' 

Is once again the cry, not of the few, 
But of the multitude, hungry to possess. 

And substituting force for skill to do. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 93 

They have their way. There is not one to stand 

Upright before them, but too many there are 
To speed the pack. The times are sordid, and 

Base are the issues trumpeted afar. 
Lower and lower bends the State. Long lost 

Is the high dignity of oflSce. Gone 
The reverence for law. At any cost 

Is sought the ignoble end, be it lost or won. 
Higher and higher sweeps the tide, which brings 

From many a muddied pool unfiltered thought 
To darken and becloud the crystal springs 

Once luminous with light from Heaven caught. 
Only the few, far reaches of the mind 

Keep clear and undefiled. In that thin air. 
Where thrives no poison to make mad mankind, 

The many find no natural lot or share. 
To love experiment, experience spurn, 

Wisdom disdain, to scorn each sound restraint 
Upon the emotions — this will win, not earn 

Quick plaudits. Who best feeds the common plaint, 
Or finds unthought of grievance, he best serves 

His time. But yesterday unknown, today 
Men deem him great, tho' little he deserves 

Who cannot guide the storm or it allay. 
Of old men looked to Heaven to realize 

Their hopes, and meanwhile made the best of earth, 
Thankful if what they won by enterprise 

Could sate their wants not grown of too great girth: 



94 BRIDLE PATHS 

This age of egoism seeks to bring 

The heaven of Mahomed within the reach 
Of all, while still to earth all closely cling. 

Christ's kingdom comes not while His children teach 
That the chief end of man is to expose 

His fellow's foibles, and to fit new laws 
To new-made crimes. The unhappy man who shows 

The fruits of force and forethought must show cause, 
Also, why he is not as others are. 

The pits where others fall he has o'erleaped. 
To him impediment has been no bar, 

And where he sowed, there, also, has he reaped. 
Nature has so endowed him with her gifts 

That these o'ercome her many obstacles. 
He holds his course until the darkness lifts, 

And lo! for him the port rings all its bells. 
This shall be changed. His race shall not be swift 

Or far. Nor shall he gain the prize. No more 
Shall prizes be, but those who idly drift 

Shall share with all from out a common store, 
And mankind, like a derelict, bereft 

Of sail and power and helm, of will and hope, 
Within the hollow of the waves be left. 

Tossed by a force with which it cannot cope. 
This may not be. The remedy is severe; 

Unseen it works already, and its end 
Will come through suffering, sorrow, hunger, tear, 

When every man to man his help must lend. 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 95 

Listen my friends, and hear the bitter truth 

Told bitterly, perhaps, as need requires 
For truth so bitter, and spare not your ruth 

For the extinguishing of household fires:" 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS 

Out of such darkness has mankind emerged 
As Thetis saw from a lone height at dawn 
Roll back before the lances of the sun. 
Such darkness he may see who, having climbed 
Some near, low human eminence, looks down 
His upward path. How many there still search 
Among the rotted fruit! What barbarous wants 
Which long were mute, what envy once expressed 
In skulking deeds, what malice long restrained 
By force, now riot on the printed page. 
Ride on the wind, and lodge within the law! 

Unfit usurper who has seized the earth! 

Despoiler of her hidden treasure vaults! 

Destroyer of the forests and the brutes! 

Tyrant and coward by turns, forming each morn, 

Dissolving groups for safety or for prey! 

Self-confident where distrust should begin. 

And without faith save in finesse or wrong! 

Down on thy knees! Pray that the wave of wealth. 

Which thou canst not endure, may soon be turned 

Away! Ask for the cupboard bare! Seek for 

The bodily ills which cure the ills of mind! 

Let real wants unsatisfied disperse 

Thy clamorous brood of fancied wrongs, as blasts 

Blown from the North dispel the night fogs born 



96 BRIDLE PATHS 

Of too much softness and untimely warmth! 
Crave such poor portals as are built of sleet 
And cold, that creeping into some rude hut 
Contrast may give content! There recreate 
Thyself in penitence with a pure heart, 
Apart from them that cry "Him crucify!" 
And know that every fear and cause thereof. 
The seed, the light which gave it life; the air 
And soil from which it sustenance drew; the shape 
Whose shadow falls across thy morning path 
Are all alike of thy creation — all 
Thine own and every man's. Then with restraint 
Serve thou thyself and save thy fellow-man. 
So save the State, built in high-mindedness — 
So save the State, with citizens self-made 
Out of its many million malcontents. 

"This cheerful blaze takes on a sombre light," 

The Doctor said. "I'm loath to leave the fire, 
But better so. Before we say 'good night,' 

I think the members of our quartette choir 
Should sing the song which celebrates the folk 

Of whom John Adams wrote: — 'But mostly learn 
The deeds done in the Netherlands, which broke 

The power of Spain that freedom's lamp might burn:' " 



BOOT, SADDLE, TO HORSE 97 



THE DUTCH ON THE DELAWARE 

A song for the Dutch of long, long ago 

Who first discovered the Delaware, 
A song for the stream whose pleasant waters flow 

Through forests green and meadows fair, 
A song for the Dutch who love it so. 
The sons of the Dutch of long ago. 
The Jersey Dutch, 
The Delaware Dutch, 
And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 



Tho' many and many a noble river pours 

Down from the hills its ocean-share. 
There is not one that hath any greener shores 

Than the beautiful river Delaware. 
Then, here's to the Dutch who found it so, 
And the sons of the Dutch of long ago. 
The Jersey Dutch, 
The Delaware Dutch, 
And the Dutch of Pennsylvania, 



The river between can never, never part, 

Nor long the stout Dutch hearts divide. 
For a bond of blood binds heart to heart 

And bridges the stream from side to side. 
Then long live the Dutch, while the Delaware flows 
And turns again before it goes, 
The Jersey Dutch, 
The Delaware Dutch, 
And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 



98 BRIDLE PATHS 

The Paulinskill, Schuylkill, and Modderkill sing 

As they seek the river Delaware, 
Spreading thro' the land memories that cling 

Around the old Dutch names they bear. 
So let the song swell to a chorus strong 
For the Dutch who strolled the banks along, 
The Jersey Dutch, 
The Delaware Dutch, 
And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 

The Sons of the Beggars of the Zuyder Zee 
With Washington crossed the Delaware. 
They fought with Meade when he took from Robert 
Lee 
And tacked the lost stars on the Dutch colors there; 
To keep the stars there forever be the care 
Of the Dutch on the banks of the Delaware. 
The Jersey Dutch, 
The Delaware Dutch, 
And the Dutch of Pennsylvania. 



Part II 
Storm Stayed 



BY flails unnumbered threshed on the dark floor 
Of April's starless sky, the loosened rain 
Herded the leaping water waves ashore, 

And made the stream and mill-race one again. 
The dawn would show, what now the night concealed, 

The flood's expanse where yesterday were seen 
The winding road and the low-lying field, 

With alders fringed and water willows green. 
Meanwhile the travellers a late vigil kept. 

As the slow hours wore on the lights went out 
In village homes, and soon the people slept. 

Not all — At midnight boisterous laugh and shout 
Were heard, when the last loiterers, flinging wide 

The tavern door, set free a stream of light. 
And, tramping noisily homeward, loudly cried 

"Good night to all," and then again, "Good night.'* 
Their heel taps on the uneven pavement ceased. 

Once, twice, a street door closed, with loud report. 
Or the low clouds again their floods released. 

Which beating on the village roofs, cut short 
The first sleep of uneasy slumberers, kept 

Each dog within his favorite shelter place, 
And sent the miller on his rounds. On crept 

The flood, not as the torrent comes apace, 
101 



102 BRIDLE PATHS 

But slowly, inch by inch, it passed the edge 

Where his last mark was driven. Two inches 
more — 
It quenched the metal star set in the ledge 

To mark the greatest flood e'er known before. 
In the false dawn the silent air was stirred 

By call of voices and the distant low 
Of driven cattle — a belated herd 

Seeking the tavern yard with progress slow. 
Thus night wore on among the Maryland hills, 

And here the travellers rose to see with day 
The village streets changed into streaming rills, 

To learn that many a bridge was washed away, 
And that until the creeks went down again, 

And fords now seldom used were safe once more. 
Here where they were, perforce, they must remain. 

Upon his way towards the stable door 

The farmer-pilgrim said, "The horses will 
Be better for the rest." 'Twas he who set 

The pace for all on level road or hill 
The quiet start, which made the nervous fret. 

The rest at noon, the faster gait toward night 
For all he measured. He it was who saw 

That stalls were cleaned and straw beds fresh and 
bright. 
His single glance, a word, would overawe 

The careless stableman, for masterful 



STORM STAYED 103 

He was, and then he knew. He saw that hoofs 

Were washed, that backs were sponged and mired 
and dull 
Coats made to glisten. Every day new proofs 

Of his unceasing care the horses showed. 
Purse-bearer, too, he paid the bills and kept 

The accounts. Tips with discretion he bestowed. 
In the noon hour, when the short shadows crept 

Around the trees, he chose the route to serve 
Their purpose best. 'Twas he who led the way 

From the hard pikes to roads of pleasant turf 
Liked best by horses. Master of today 

Was he. The future and the past he left 
To the Historian, Student, Sage. Of cares 

Like theirs much pleased was he to be bereft. 
His own five hundred acres, cattle, mares. 

His flocks, his crops of wheat and corn and grass, 
His farmhands, each year less intelligent, 

These kept him well in care, and he let pass 
To men less occupied the trouble sent 

Backward and forward from this age or that. 
The present time he mastered, and what task 

The day brought forth. His grandsire's fields were fat; 
They now were his. Better no man could ask. 

Yet each year they more fertile grew. His fence 
Rows were as clean in autumn as in spring. 

His barns, sheds, granaries spread — a settlement whence 
Outpoured at morn a stream of life to bring 

Increase of substance. More than fourscore cows 



104 BRIDLE PATHS 

Pushed out to pasture. From the sheepfold ran 

The flock to drink beneath the willow boughs. 
The colts frisked through the bars, and horse and man, 

Six teams, went separate ways to fields unplowed. 
The pigeons scattered from the loft; the hens 

By hundreds scratched and clucked, and shrill and loud 
The guinea-fowls gave voice to their offence 

At all this stir. The peacock spread his tail 
And gave his rain cry by clear skies denied. 

Master of these and more, when life should fail, 
All to his heir increased — nay multiplied — 

Would he turn over as his sire to him, 
Unless men envious grown at seeing land 

In private ownership, bad statesmen trim 
Their sail to fill each eager, outstretched hand. 

Tho' customs changed, and strangers crude, unskilled, 
Requiring guidance, did with fork and spade 

Some ruder tasks, his cottages were filled 
With families reared upon the farm. They made 

His interests theirs. To each was given a space 
Of garden, and of pigs and fowls a share. 

And store of winter roots (but not in place 
Of wage). They had the family doctor's care 

When ill, but not his bill to pay. They, too, 
From sire to son remained upon the farm, 

Giving a loyal service, and but few 
Faced coming age with shrinking or alarm. 

A patriarchal system, out of use, 



STORM STAYED 105 

But not replaced by anything as good. 

Gone are the man and master when men choose 
To make a master of the multitude. 

Grandfather, father, son had been in turn 
Of the near county bank the President. 

County affairs he knew; men came to learn 
From him what this or that new movement meant, 

And what its worth, and what the merit was 
Of those who headed it, for each affair 

Was thought to fail or else to win because 
Of what the leaders were or lacked. No care 

Had they for what the general judgment said 
Of matters practical, involving loss 

Or gain. They never thought to count each head 
For weight of value or to measure dross. 

Punctilious, proud, considerate of the right 
Of others, firm in maintenance of his due. 

Taking the heavier end and not the light 
Of mutual burden, gentleman all through. 

The Farmer piloted the cavalcade. 
Historian, Student, Sage, or Preacher, all 

Made him commander and his plans obeyed, 
E'en rising when they heard his morning call. 

Looking the horses over, now he found 
A loosened shoe. No guidance did he need. 

But backward traced an anvil's ringing sound. 
And watched the blacksmith as he shod the steed, 



106 BRIDLE PATHS 

Choosing a light shoe, flat at heel and toe, 

Which matched in weight the worn one cast aside. 
Within the blacksmith shop, in many a row. 

Hung from the darkened rafters, long and wide, 
A store of smoke-blacked irons. Walls and floor 

Of earth, soot-stained, absorbed the trembling light 
Which entered from the partly opened door 

And lost itself in the surrounding night. 
The flood's embargo made a holiday; 

On the converging roads no country folk, 
No teams, no herd, no swaying loads of hay, 

No oxen shouldering the heavy yoke. 
Moved toward the village. To the cross-roads store 

No buyers came. Trowel and saw and plane 
Were laid aside. The smith's shed held a score 

Of men and boys, gave shelter from the rain, 
And for a game of quoits afi'orded space. 

Skilled were the players. In swift order fell 
The "ringer" and the quoit, which took its place, 

And quick, loud laughter never failed to tell 
Whene'er a player with a quoit reversed 

Had thrown a "ringer" from the hub. But now 
The red-hot horseshoe, hissing, was immersed 

In water, and the smith with deft, light blow 
Soon shod the horse, which done, the farmer sought 

Again the inn. The Sage looked up to ask, 
"What of the weather? How's the public thought? 

Does the majority think that Heaven's cask 



STORM STAYED 107 

Shall be set upright, emptied, by the morn?" 

The farmer said, "The wind at last has changed. 
Tomorrow we may start." From sights forlorn 

The travellers turned, and then their chairs arranged 
In a wide circle in the ample room. 

Ready to talk if any wished to hear. 
Or listen if that lot should be their doom, 

If neither, then to wait 'til skies were clear. 
Two days before by the long wooden chain 

Of covered bridges, linked by little isles. 
They crossed the Susquehanna, climbed again 

The steep road winding through the Harford hills; 
The river viewed from bold Bald Friars height. 

And in the place names, as they rode, they traced 
The offshoots of the ancient churches' might. 

The monastery long has been effaced. 
But Priests' Ford still leads over the Deer Creek, 

And isolated hamlets send to mass 
Their people on the first day of the week. 

Just laws gave favor to no sect or class: 
The Quaker built his meeting house; the moans 

Of the receding forest died away 
Before the Church of England's chanted tones. 

Hushed were the breezes of the summer day — 
Toward evening, while melodious catbirds sang — 

As the old clerk upon his parchments wrote 
His parish records. From those griefs the pang 

Is gone two hundred years, and gone the note 



108 BRIDLE PATHS 

Of joy o'er birth and baptism. When the flock 

Now gather in the ancient church, how few 
They number! Here two scions of the stock 

Sit lonely, each within his separate pew. 
The digits of two pairs of hands are more 

Than all the worshippers. A half-way place 
They hold between the fathers gone before 

And all the vanished vigor of their race, 
Which seeks the city's tempting battleground. 

No young, fresh voices chant the canticle 
Or Benedictus with rich, swelling sound; 

Only the hymns are sung, and they a knell 
Would seem were Faith not strong. No classes wait 

The Bishop's coming to confirm their vows. 
The field is garnered clean. How low the state 

Of the old church! Will it with life arouse 
Again? It serves and bides its time. Blest be 

The steadfast few who keep the faith for all 
Until the eternal truth all men shall see. 

This region whence the long hills gently fall 

To the low levels by the Chesapeake 
Blends in its people diverse traits. The North 

And South here meet. The border slave could seek 
And freedom find in one night's walk. The worth 

Of Pennsylvania thrift o'erlapped the grace 
Virginia lent. Soft is the speech, but hard 

The will. Northward the good farm customs trace 



STORM STAYED 109 

Their birth, but to the South the land is ward 

In social usage. On the lowlands near 
The bay, the outgo in the planter's home 

O'ertopped the income from his fields each year. 
And debt pursued him 'til he reached the tomb 

In fields which served him well at last. His grant 
Of land, whether it bore the oft-given name 

Of ''Misery," "Comfort," or "Delight," his want 
Had satisfied in life and death the same. 

Upon such themes the storm-bound guests talked long. 

Of such a home the Student said, "If all 
Are willing, I shall read a poet's song. 

Which broods on what is gone beyond recall:" 

BLOOMSBURY 

A few stones mark the gathered graves 

On the first range of Harford hills, 
Which downward slope to where the waves 

In slow procession pass the isles. 

To the still air no sail is spread; 

Ashore no motion is or sound, 
Save when the dead leaves overhead 

Fall softly, rustling, to the ground. 

The windows, which with senile eye 
On Bloomsbury's acres seem to stare, 

Once as the warships thundered by 
Flashed back again the cannon's flare. 



no BRIDLE PATHS 

Time was the iron knocker's fall 

Upon the oaken, alcoved door 
Sent troops of echoes down the hall, 

And through the house from floor to floor. 

Seen from the window's recessed seat, 

The driveway, flecked with sun and shade, 

Brought here the hunter to the meet, 
The lover to the waiting maid. 

Who now would dare those echoes wake, 
To start them on a clamorous quest! 

Hither no thoughts a fond flight take; 
All Bloomsbury's ghosts are sunk to rest. 

Then let the idle knocker lie, 

Encrusted in its coat of rust; 
The lifeless thing is slow to die; 

The deathless soon is turned to dust. 

Hark! 'Tis the forest brook, which calls 
To the light heart in happy tones. 

Life needs no more these darkened halls. 
Nor empty grave these lettered stones. 

And then the Sage: "The careless eye takes in 

With one swift glance the picturesque which lies 
Upon a surface often cold and thin. 

A beauty deeper hides from prying eyes, 
And warms, unseen, the breasts which nourish it, 

Until in act, part human, part divine, 
It breaks into full flower, and minds are lit, 

And groping hearts take courage at the sign. 



STORM STAYED 111 

Northward, a short day's easy journey, dwell 

A folk, at once more simple and involved 
Than the gay planters, who, beneath the spell 

Of Montrose or of Ivanhoe resolved 
To meet the hard facts of their time and place 

With a romantic attitude of mind. 
There was no evil they could not efface, 

Or imperfection, just by being blind. 
All common lives were thus made beautiful, 

All maidens fair, all men remarkable. 
Grim care was banished; never day was dull; 

If aught went wrong, there was no tongue to 
tell." 

The Historian answered: "True, nevertheless, 

Give them their due. Manners have broken down 
With many a good old custom, we confess, 

Throughout the North. Diogenes the town 
Would search today, not for the honest man; 

But clubs, assemblies, spacious homes, how long 
And with what patience might the searcher scan 

Before he found the gentleman. The throng 
Has elbowed him into some quiet nook 

Far from the highways, where they press for place 
Or power or wealth. Great God! what stolid look, 

Uncomprehending, have I seen man's face 
Take on to hide suspicion of some act 

Of casual courtesy! What fear made plain, 



112 BRIDLE PATHS 

Lest citadels of self might be attacked! 

What dread lest proffered gifts be made for gain! 
Never in forest of BroceUande 

Did knight so fear to lower guard as these, 
Who in the social jungle doubting stand, 

Unfirmly under strange ancestral trees; 
Who dread to meet half-way between the lines 

Some harmless flag of truce, lest 'neath its fold 
Lurk one without the social countersigns 

Or sponsor's countenance. For, lo! these hold 
The secret keys which ope the sacred gate. 

Kept closed and guarded, so that none may pass 
Unchallenged to that happy inner state. 

Entailed on dull youth or on homely lass. 
He who would know the true American, 

Of whom elsewhere some faint traditions tell. 
Who looked not up in fear of any man, 

Or save in kindness down on those who fell; 
Who, confident of place and rights secure. 

Moved 'mongst his fellows with an open front. 
Must Southward go. There may the Northern boor, 

Who makes each day exhibit of his wont. 
Yet learn how wealth's accessories can fail 

To ripen conduct, and may even perceive 
That the career of sport, which makes man hale, 

Leaves him too dull to worship or to grieve. 
I love the land of softer speech. I love 

Its warm and liquid moons, the misty morn, 



STORM STAYED 113 

The still, hot noon, when cattle seek the grove, 

The wind's soft whispers in the rustling corn 
On dewy twilights, hour of youth and love, 

The carol of the insect voices loud 
In leaves which hide the burning stars above. 

When the cold Northern moonlight with its shroud 
Enfolded earth, and the low ocean moan 

Withdrew inaudible, there my heart has heard 
The Southern summer night wheel through its zone. 

And into one two sister griefs were blurred, 
One wrinkled, vaguely moving to and fro, 

Or from the past advancing, near and new, 
And leading with stern hand a younger Woe, 

Whose tear-stained face is partly hid from view." 

BRENTON REEF 

Across the path which Brenton Hght 

To shoreward threw upon the bay, 
A sail scarce seen ere lost to sight 

Thro' storm and darkness made its way. 

Upon the wind the buoy bell 

All day had flung its warning tale, 
The danger which it had to tell 

Was of the rock and driving gale. 

At dark we saw the beacon glow, 

And fade away and gleam again; 
All night we watched the ebb and flow 

Of fevered life brought low in pain. 



114 BRIDLE PATHS 

There were no warnings of the foe, 

Which through the unguarded land gates crept; 
No trumpets in the sky to blow, 

No lights to flare; the sentries slept. 

None now could make the spot on shore. 
All sheltered from the wind and rain, 

Safe as the bark which ran before 

The gale out toward the troubled main. 

Tho' on the reef the long waves rolled, 
And loud the booming breakers' roar, 

Wide was the sea room ere it shoaled, 
And deep the water off the shore. 

There on the sea was lusty life, 

Exulting in the billows' toss; 
There on the shore was purblind strife 

Nearing each hour defeat and loss. 

THE CHAPEL ROAD 

Smartly she made her horses stop 
In front of the green-grocer's shop; 
The clerks ran out to wait on her; 
The humble shop was all astir; 
It seemed some fairy had set free 
The sleeping flowers of chivalry. 

Did happy chance or favor sweet 
Place him who shares her carriage seat? 
Tho' late, still Fortune has been kind 
To give those youths the seat behind, 
And me the chance, when they are gone 
Their road, in thought, to follow on. 



STORM STAYED 115 

How well I, who am old, do know 
The pleasant road o'er which they go. 
In youth I learned each grade and turn, 
The hollow where the sumachs burn, 
The winding hill and the long lane 
Which bring the mind back home again. 

For oft the mind will title hold 

To home fields which have long been sold, 

And Fancy many times will trace 

Youth's footsteps round the old home place. 

Now Fancy hastens on the road 

With youths and maid to her abode. 

Gaily they laugh and lightly talk; 

Now Fancy drags in sombre walk, 

And now must take long leaps and bounds 

To hear again the happy sounds, 

And then falls back, then runs before. 

To pass with them the open door. 

Stay, Fancy, stay! It is not best 
To steal an uninvited guest 
Into home's sacred privacy. 
Which is not home for thee and me; 
Still, while the door is opened wide, 
Thou canst not help a glimpse inside. 

The lights are on; the firelight throws 
Shades light as any Fancy knows. 
The cloth is laid, and Fancy hears 
In different rooms from vanished years 
The sounds of jingling silverware 
And song of Schubert, rich and rare. 



116 BRIDLE PATHS 

Ah, Fancy! Thou art led astray; 
These sounds are of another day, 
How poor thy gift! Thou canst not tell 
Where, in what starry field or dell, 
That voice, long silent here, is heard 
In finer, holier strain and word. 

At best thou canst but recreate 
A shadow of a vanished state; 
Thou hast no power to see or hear 
Aught otherwhere than in the sphere 
Which gave thyself regretful birth; 
Thy vistas all stretch back o'er earth. 

The door is closed; the shades are drawn. 
Come, Fancy, cross with me the lawn. 
Whilst thou wert dancing on to peer. 
With curious glances, there and here. 
The stars have circled into place. 
Our backward path 'twere best to trace. 

Thou broughtst me here. Now quickly find 
Thy secret recess in the mind; 
No farther Wanton by thee led. 
The dark and silent street I tread. 
Where over loud the footfall sounds 
Of the night watchman on his rounds. 

Good fates keep watch o'er all who dwell 
Beneath the roof we knew so well! 
For them long may the ripe fruit fall 
Which grows behind the garden wall, 
Damson and pear and apricots, 
And a rich store of mellow thoughts! 



STORM STAYED 117 

And when their tree of life is bare, 

Without a leaf or blossom there, 

And they who garner also fall 

Before the harvester of all, 

May other hearts beat high with hope 

When spring steals down the sunny slope. 

Round, round will turn life's wheel, I know, 
Nor young miss long the old who go; 
The summer fade, the frost return, 
The blossoms swell, or hearth fire burn 
And Fancy pause with folded wing 
To set each warm heart fluttering. 

On, on the search, with few to find 
The vision sought by all their kind. 
The roof will shelter many a guest. 
But still withhold the perfect rest, 
Until at last it, too, shall fall 
And sweep down rafter, beam, and all. 

"Perhaps," the Historian said, "the duel trained 

The South in conduct. Men more careful grow 
In thought and act, and babble is restrained 

Where life is less than honor, and the blow 
Of brutal word or the stiletto thrust 

Behind, foul cunning's prompt to treacherous tongue. 
May bring offender quickly to the dust. 

Still, love I well the virtues yet unsung 
Of the Germanic folk who crossed the line 

Between the North and South, the Cumberland 



118 BRIDLE PATHS 

And Shenandoah valleys' soil benign 

Possessed, and with home rifles still in hand, 
The mountains passed, or toward the gulf pressed on, 

Peopling Kentucky's dark and bloody ground. 
The Carolinas and the lands upon 

The turbulent Tennessee. Their wagons wound 
Along the tortuous trail to Sante Fe 

And thence to Mexico. Skilled armorers. 
The rifle which held the Indian foe at bay 

Along the frontier fringe of mountain firs 
Their hands had shaped. In that great overflow 

From Pennsylvania swept along were Boone, 
The Lincolns, Davises, Calhouns. The throw 

Of Fate's uncertain dice, exchanging soon 
Their places, thrust the man of humbler race 

Forward to lead the planters through their war; 
And chose him of the kind and rugged face. 

Scion of stock more prominent, and with more 
Of wealth, to free at last the negro slave. 

The Indian whose unerring rifle sent 
Mourners to the first murdered Lincoln's grave, 

And thence to poverty, an instrument 
Was, too, in the Almighty's larger plan. 

So careful of the universal scheme, 
So careless of the individual man 

That he is but a straw upon the stream." 

The Student here took up the thought: "The art 
Of music for Americans arose 



STORM STAYED 119 

Not in the seaboard cities, but had start 

Within the good Moravians' holy close, 
Where orchestra and balanced chorus stirred, 

And won with classic strains the alien air 
To symphonies the cities never heard 

Or Handel's harmonies. I think somewhere 
From the deep wells of feeling will o'erflow 

In Pennsylvania German land a stream 
Of song and music, not the chords we know, 

Thin, lacking temperament, but rich, supreme, 
Melodies like Beethoven's undertones 

Heard by the inner ear — not Jewels shaped 
By unimpassioned polishers of stones, 

But deep with thought in joy or sorrow draped." 

THE PENNS'i'LVANIA GERMANS 

From under valleys, broad and deep, 
Under mine-chambers, dark and vast, 

The lost stream takes unseen its leap 
Into the lofty lake at last. 

There on the mountain's laurelled brow 

That diadem of water gleams, 
And gives to grass-grown plains below 

The light and life of mountain streams. 

So, northward, out of Italy 

March Rome's Teutonic conquerors 
Toward an unknown, uncharted sea. 

Beyond as strange, unHghted shores. 



120 BRIDLE PATHS 

O'erproud to care for or to keep 
The bauble empire they had won, 

They turned them from the Roman sleep 
By Theodoric built upon. 

But when a thousand years of war 

Had wrecked the parcelled States and thrones, 

How rose the Teuton stream once more 
Above the feudal pillar stones! 

Holland to Rome — light answered light; 

Between — the cycle's jungle, Moor 
And Hun and Spaniard's cruel might, 

Until the long dark age was o'er. 

Moulder and master of Europe's fate. 
Maker of nations where the hearth 

Rests the chief corner of the State, 
Home-lover, bearing round the earth 

Live hearth-brands to a land remote — 
The Teuton with his axe and spade 

The Pennsylvania forests smote. 
Their wilderness a garden made. 

As well he smote at once, for all. 
At the new serfdom, and his plea 

Above the din of slavery's fall 
Rings our first paean for liberty. 

And while he tended vines and hives, 
And started fairest vales to bloom, 

He cherished the old martyrs' lives. 
And set the press beside the loom. 



STORM STAYED 121 

If elsewhere man were prey to man, 

And life a war by cunning won, 
Here was wrought out the nobler plan. 

By Christ upon the Mount begun. 

These took no oaths, nor drew the sword, 

But lived in common brotherhood — 
The rich and poor; the debtor's word 

In lieu of bond and usury stood. 

Doors were not barred, nor windows locked, 

The pulpit was not filled for hire. 
Nor were the Sabbath teachings mocked 

By walks through moral fen and mire. 

Cease, cease, insistent Saxon tongues, 

Lest in the chants by angels said 
These, these, who silent climbed the rungs , 

Of sacrifice be heralded. 

By fifteen decades act and deed 

Preceded Tolstoi's word; across 
Twelve hundred years we find the seed 

In march of Goth and Italy's loss. 

All Holland was; all England is; 

Rome might be now, but that is vain; 
We know the Teutons marched, and this — 

That Rome has never risen again. 

For it is not the hour or place. 

Or country, clime, or circumstance; 
It is the man, it is the race, 

That makes the way for man's advance. 



Part III 
The Borderland 



THE morn proved fitful, but the farmer's call 
Was urgent, and his step and voice were heard 
At every bedroom on the tavern hall. 

At his command the soundest sleeper stirred, 
And promptly on the hour the horsemen — all 

Save one — rode on. But one was left behind. 
To eat cold meats, to go from empty stall 

To stall, and then, as best he could, to find 
The route his friends had taken where the road 

Had forked. Much time he lost inspecting prints 
Of horses' feet. The lane to each abode 

He passed seemed long, and hours had vanished since 
Its occupants sought each a separate task. 

At last above the hill a carriage loomed, 
And then he learned what he half feared to ask, 

That he had missed his way. The thunder boomed; 
The rain in sheets enveloped him. Noon o'ertook 

Him, riding at a walk, his horse's feet 
Slipping at every step; the road a brook 

Of softest bottom, while wind lashings beat 
Upon his face. Grimly his mind portrayed 

The shelter by his friends found long ago; 
And when the sun broke through the barricade 

Of clouds, and lit the cheerful promise bow, 
And he had reached the appointed stopping-place 

For the noon rest, the tavern-keeper said, 
125 



126 BRIDLE PATHS 

Without a welcome in his voice or face: 

"The fire is out; naught's left but milk and bread; 
A horseback party, gone an hour or more, 

Ate up the larder to the last baked pie." 
He drank his milk, and ate his bread, and swore 

A little under breath, and wondered why- 
One who had studied civic rule, and knew 

So well the faults of city and of State, 
And what was gross and what was wise and true, 

Should now encounter this strange turn of fate, 
Thrust on him by a farmer who had no 

Large views with which to bless mankind. But he 
Was sound at heart, and let his vapors go 

The way they came, and met the penalty 
Of jests, which greeted him as night came on 

And he rejoined his comrades, in good part. 
Their resting-place, Westminster, stands upon 

The eastern slope of a high ridge, whence start 
Divided streams. One toward the Chesapeake, 

Another down the Potomac Valley flows. 
Who would adventures meet or perils seek. 

Greater than the cross-country fox hunt knows. 
Should ride not down these vales, as peaceful now 

As on a June dawn, many years ago. 
The farm boy from the pasture drove the cow 

Thro' the wet grass; the morning mists hung low 
About the stream; the smoke began to curl 

From many a kitchen chimney. Those old men 



THE BORDERLAND 127 

Had seen a lifetime of such dawns of pearl — 

This dawn was like a thousand others. Then 
The vapors parted, and on every road 

Pressed horsemen, drooping banners, marching troops. 
A marching army's moving columns flowed 

Northward, northward, before the wondering groups. 
Under the oak tree, where the child had played, 

Outhning rudely her small house of stones, 
Was hanged a spy, whose ghastly features made 

The place a shade of horrors. Feeble moans 
Came from the copse — there a hurt soldier lay. 

The month of roses closed in sweltering heat; 
The deep dust, stirred perpetually, turned gray 

The roadside foliage. Twice ten thousand feet 
Tramped onward, leaders of the coming host. 

"Men, keep the column closed," the general said, 
And "Close up, men! Close up!" And it was closed. 

The battlefield was waiting on ahead, 
While here the Spirit of Battle paused to brood 

Awhile o'er fields by nature shaped for war — 
Paused over slope and stream with lifted hood. 

Passed on with backward glance, and looked no more. 

THE UNKNOWN WATER 

Not with the torrent's noise, 
Not with the rapid's voice, 
Does the peaceful stream rejoice. 
Scarce known is its humble name. 
Unswept by the battle flame, 
Happily it missed its fame. 



128 BRIDLE PATHS 

Here had the soldier planned 
To assemble his whole command 
For the battle near at hand. 
It seemed the morn would find 
His troops to the heights assigned 
And the foe in the front aligned. 

In the blaze of the summer sun 
The engineers' work was done, 
And the battle line was run; 
There, batteries on the bank; 
Here, infantry, rank on rank; 
Cavalry out on the flank. 

Eighty thousand men in all, 

On the march would have turned at the call 

Of the bugler's note, to fall 

Into the line prepared. 

If the bugle had but blared. 

How had the bugler fared 

In the battle which never was fought? 
Would the death, far swifter than thought, 
The corps commander have sought. 
Had he drawn his troops from that field 
Where the glancing light revealed 
The foe in the wood concealed? 

Had the fortunes of war not ordained 
That clash, that encounter sustained. 
Would an earlier peace have been gained? 
Had the armies fought here would the foe 
On that day, forty summers ago, 
Have laid all his banners low? 



THE BORDERLAND 129 

Not here was the cannonade, 
Not here were the charges made; 
Here only the stream and the shade, 
High noon's pulsations of heat, 
The call of the quail in the wheat. 
And all that makes peace complete. 

The roar of distant guns 

For three long midsummer suns — 

Then rumor, which fact outruns, 

Told the harvester as he toiled 

In the grain, untrampled, unspoiled, 

That the foe was beaten and foiled. 

War's tempest passed overhead, 
It broke where the highways led 
By streams, in a day all red. 
Far famed is the battle place, 
The unknown water's ways 
None ever seek to trace. 

At noon the next day, in the mountain gap, 

They strove to think their fire a bivouac blaze; 
To hear the drum's roll in the woodpecker's tap 

On hollow tree; to see in the soft haze 
The battle smoke and hear the battle's roar 

In rumble of the distant railroad car; 
But this was vain. The senses stirred no more 

With the dead passions of tumultuous war. 
The Farmer watched the tethered horses munch 

Their corn. The Guardsman built of thin flat stones 
A stove on which to warm the mid-day lunch. 

The Student baked with care the oaten scones, 



130 BRIDLE PATHS 

Toasted on hickory twig the bacon and bread, 

And roasted in the ash the Southern yam. 
Whereat the sacred Past, affronted, fled 

From sympathy which seemed a show and sham. 
But coyly in the hour of rest returned. 

Coaxed by the Guardsman's musing utterance: 
"How needless seems the strife. The roof tree burned 

With fiery arrows shot from sheltered stance 
By safe civilians. When their fire had caught. 

The fierce-toned orator and pamphleteer, 
Dismayed and helpless, the trained soldier sought 

And made their conflict his. They reappear 
In modern Halls of Fame who disappeared 

E'er the long line, advancing in the clear, 
Thinned as the belching battery was neared. 

And round the banner rang the victors' cheer. 
Abou Ben Adhems of their time, their names 

Lead all the rest. An unheroic age 
Rears its memorials on forgotten fames. 

Exalts its own and claims the heritage. 
The trading spirits of the time still find 

Their hero in Ben Franklin, for they know 
Him for a fellow, shrewd, of their own kind, 

And therefore place the laurel on his brow. 
John Woolman, Penn, Pastorius, Benezet, 

Idealists all, subordinating self. 
Delight not them, who also now forget 

The soldier-saviours of their state and pelf, 



THE BORDERLAND 131 

Those later offerers of blood and life, 

Of days of arduous toil, of nights devoid 
Of rest, lovers of peace, who lived in strife, 

Lest that loved more than peace should be destroyed. 
Alas! Their greatest battlefield is made 

A rostrum, whence the day's last orator 
His public's greed, in commonplace arrayed, 

Its struggle over wealth, hurls to the fore. 
Seeking a holy sanction in the scene 

Around him for the shallow word and thought 
With which self's sordid aim still seeks to screen 

Its motive from the marts of commerce brought. 
Sacred that field to noble memories 

Should be. There is the beauty of holiness 
In the last sacrifice. Who rightly sees 

It lets his plottings fall and stays to bless." 

"Ah," said the Historian, "if the instrument 

Could keep the perfect pitch. The strings soon 
slip; 
The wood-winds but a little while are blent 

In purest harmony from the player's lip; 
Flute and bassoon, viol and violin. 

Right oft need shepherding into the fold. 
Nations and men heroic may have been, 

Yet lose the pitch of the brave days of old. 
Did not this Nation help to overthrow 

Republics twain? Consider how John Hay, 



132 BRIDLE PATHS 

Who long basked in the Lincoln after-glow, 

Who stood by Lincoln in the mighty fray, 
Who heard the guns of Gettysburg decide 

That a free government should live, could let 
The pitch upheld by Lincoln downward slide! 

How from an English camp where Farragut 
Had made the land free soil, the plotted crime 

Was nursed and fed, and it made possible 
To keep the black man sweating in his grime. 

To such a crime were there a fitting hell — 
For such a crime turns back the hands of time — 

'Twould be to hear the moaning, muffled bell, 
Swinging on high, in rarer, purer clime, 

Forever ring the twin Republics' knell." 

KRUGERSDORP 

Paul Kruger of Pretoria! 
Our winter tempest passed 
With sound of rifle blast, 
From where the pious burghers 
Their Afric plain swept bare 
Of English foemen there, 
As Tromp had swept the channel 
Of English ships so clean — 
It seemed they had not been. 

Wise patriot of Pretoria! 
Speaking as Lincoln spoke, 
Striking with Cromwell's stroke, 
Dutch William's mighty spirit 



THE BORDERLAND 133 

That broke the power of Spain, 
Leaps into flame again. 
That sacred fire enkindled 
In those who built the State 
Shall save and make it great. 

Brave soldier of Pretoria! 
Our trekkers also bore 
To prayer the flints of war. 
From the Virginia pulpit 
The preacher in his stole 
Sounded the war-drum's roll, 
And many a farmer-warrior 
Saw in the flashing sword 
The vengeance of the Lord. 

Shrewd statesman of Pretoria! 
The world has learned anew 
That men who dare may do. 
How many men of mettle 
Who set old England right 
With sword and Bible light, 
From Krugersdorp to Naseby, 
Remembered Runnymede, 
And shared thy manly creed! 

Paul Kruger of Pretoria! 
Thy cause shall be thy fame; 
Its peril Europe's shame, 
Should Russia meet the tempter, 
Or France for Siam turn, 
Indignant hearts will burn. 
But neither gold nor warships 
Can tempt Paul Kruger's hand, 
Or gain Paul Kruger's land. 



134 BRIDLE PATHS 

Hail, hero of Pretoria! 
Millions of freemen hear 
Thy "Je Maintiendrai" clear, 
Pledge of the Prince of Orange 
Made thine, Paul Kruger — thou 
Hast kept as well the vow, 
A splendid century closes 
More nobly for that stand 
For right and native land. 

"Wars seem to be," the Student interposed, 

"Like public debts. The generation which 
Creates them thinks its obligation closed. 

And hands the burden to the next. Youth rich 
In health and strength throw strength and life away 

Under the lead of chieftains with a voice 
As slight as theirs in bringing on the fray. 

Those fortunate dead! For them 'tis to rejoice. 
The crippled broken ones! We know their fates; 

Their pittance, styled a scandal, for their scars; 
Their struggles and their waits at Labor's gates; 

O fortunate dead beneath the battle stars. 
The wrongs of war are visible to the blind. 

The wrongs of peace, unseen by them that see, 
Are felt 'til feeling fails the deadened mind. 

O fortunate dead, who, falling gloriously. 
Still heard the shouts and knew the victory won, 

But never heard their cause and duty clear 
Confused by specious doubt and theory spun 

'Til right in wrong, and wrong in right appear! 



THE BORDERLAND 135 

Honor the steadfast soldier whose stout heart 

Within his bosom warmed his cause 'til death. 
Were years of planning, passion — folly's part, 

A masque relinquished at the cannon's breath? 
Then men were fools, for wisdom looks ahead, 

Not backward. Shall a man take up the fight, 
And, beaten, dance because his cause is dead? 

Or shall he win and say his foe was right? 
And were these two belligerents — North and South — 

Of such a feeble wit that they could slay 
Each other furiously at the cannon's mouth. 

Then each his motive lightly puff away? 
That were a folly, but a folly small 

Compared with his or her's who now, the cause 
Being buried with the chief actors all, 

Blows the dead fire to see if still it draws. 
The Northern flings at Early's uniform 

Of gray, with his worn body cast aside. 
Were ridicule of steadfastness in storm 

And stress by triflers who could not abide 
In steadfastness, but were the first to wear 

Away our crumbling, blood-stained battle faith; 
Fit mates for widowed maids whose ashened hair 

In one short year shone 'neath the wedding wreath. 
All honor to the girl-wife who remained, 

Like Early, steadfast to a sacred grief 
And holy memory, who, war widowed, trained 

The hand to useful task, still kept the belief 



136 BRIDLE PATHS 

Earth had no bauble worth a hero's name, 
And bore it to the grave, where carven stone 

Tells silently her share of deathless fame 
And of the long, long path she trod alone." 

INCONSTANCY 

When Celia's lover fond besought her 
To pledge him only with her eyes, 

Did Celia's thoughts on tea and water 
Run, or dwell on bread and pies? 

The song so redolent of his sighs 
Gives not a sign of her replies. 

Lucasta saw her lover go 

Off to the wars to fight or die. 

Cared she for any verse's flow? 
Soon the last banner floated by, 

Soon would Lucasta's tears be dry 
(Perhaps she had new gowns to try). 

Did Chloris or Miranda or 

Fair Helen waste their time in grief? 

Or Dolly mourn a whit the more 
And spoil her pretty handkerchief? 

Or ere the bud was in the leaf 
Had she a new love in her sheaf? 

Julia, whose robes, soft as the rose, 

Like water flowed whene'er she passed! 

To her were clothes much more than those 
Neat rhymes by Herrick made to last? 

Or would a backward glance be cast 
Whether her gait were slow or fast? 



THE BORDERLAND 137 

When Waller's Saccharissa, white 
And widowed, asked the poet when 

His mood would lead him to indite 
New verse to her, cold lovers ken 

He answered for the race of men, 

"When you are young and fair again." 

Then spoke the Preacher, saying: ''Blessed are 

The peacemakers, those Dunker brethren, who 
Were first to lift war's devastating car, 

Which the rough Sheridan up the valley drew, 
Fighting the women with the Indian's torch, 

Starting a wave of flame, wide as the vale. 
Which children, standing on the vine-clad porch, 

Or mothers gripping close the pasture rail, 
In helpless terror saw sweep nearer night 

By night, lick up the stores of corn and wheat 
And leave a hundred miles of valley white 

With pallid faces bowed or trembling feet. 
There were no tools with which old men could till 

The stricken land. There were no seeds to sow 
Upon the flame-swept fields; no cows to fill 

The dairy night and morn; no stock to throw 
The furrow, and no help at hand to aid 

Those who so long had fed the host which fought 
Their fight. Somehow the women lived. They made 

Over their rags, and with the bush-thorn caught 
The jagged rent. There, life stood still. The sun 

Came up and brought no hope. His noon came on 



138 BRIDLE PATHS 

Above a silent world. His course was run 

Month after month, and all he looked upon 
Remained a waste. Then came the happy fall 

When Northern Dunkers, bearing seeds, returned — 
A thousand measures for each mile of all 

The hundred miles of barns by Sheridan burned, 
Gifts given in the careful German way, 

Not with improvidence, but by overseers 
Allotted in just portions. On that day, 

For those plain fairy princes grateful tears 
Welled forth from hearts long used to bitterness. 

The land was plowed; the seed was sown; the grain 
Was reaped and threshed and sown again. Its dress 

Of green the fertile grass-land wore again. 
The wheels of life went round once more. Now ground 

The mills again the wheaten flour, and there 
Was bread for all. The wornout soldier found 

In cobwebbed attic tattered school-books rare. 
The school bell rang, more startling sound than roar 

Of soldiers' musketry. The children played 
Old, unfamihar games. The cross-road store 

Was swept, and on its garnished shelves were laid, 
For wondering eyes to see, the simple stuffs. 

In which lithe forms were swiftly rearrayed 
As sunset faded from the western bluffs. 

For love discrowned by war and long afraid 
Had now resumed his rule. The middle-aged 

Were grandsires made almost before they knew. 



THE BORDERLAND 139 

The past was softened and its hate assuaged, 

And one again the warring sections drew. 
Thus reaped the Dunkers, and will reap above, 

But they were men of peace. 'Twas more that Meade, 
The eagle of war, should be of peace the dove, 

To stanch the wounds until they ceased to bleed. 
Revering Georgians smiled, long afterward, 

Recalling in old age their dread and fear 
Of what seemed the last stroke of fortune hard, 

Which sent to rule their State the victor here. 
They thought to find within the soldier bold. 

Who was the first and last to beat back Lee 
From a fair field, a despot, harsh and cold. 

Whose reign would make swift end of liberty. 
Their fear was changed to love. Their city, scarred 

With shells, in wonder heard the cultured tones 
Of Meade's voice, richly modulated, guard 

The rights of person. Soon the separate zones 
Of sword and distalT blended. Doors flew wide 

When he, the highest type of Northern breed, 
In whom both grace and strength dwelt side by side, 

Endowed in camp and court alike, to lead. 
Approached with finest sympathy homes bared 

By war. Some of war's ravages alone 
This soldier of the pitying heart repaired. 

The church, wherein the shrieking shells were thrown. 
He fitted for God's word and swung a chime 

Of Northern bells to ring their 'Peace on Earth, 



140 BRIDLE PATHS 

Good Will to Men' in that far Southern clime, 

And by a hundred acts of simple worth 
Each day brought closer to the Nation's heart 

The erstwhile foe, whose valor he knew best. 
His reign of law gave life unto the mart, 

And order brought the people peace and rest. 
Thus Georgia started on the way to wealth. 

And thus her people found again content. 
Thus she escaped shame done at night by stealth 

Or foul corruption with gross orgies blent, 
Such as brought low her ravished sister States, 

And all was well with her. She honors thee 
O Meade! Now and hereafter may the fates 

Give her such servitors and her people be 
Worthy of such pure service. 

If the land 

Could once again be moved by moral cause, 
How soon the contests heard on every hand, 

The noisy wrangling, which now overawes 
Lawmaker and lawgiver both alike. 

Would cease. Think ye that Gettysburg was 
fought 
To make supreme grim Labor's power to strike; 

To weave a mesh so profit may be caught 
And strained, or that heroic thousands shed 

Their blood in order's cause to feed the roots 
Of all disorder! If 'twere so, the dead 

And their devotion raised but ashen fruits. 



THE BORDERLAND 141 

Again in separate camps the people form. 

One compromises, treats, concedes; and one 
Begirds its millions for the coming storm. 

As sires took sides, so now their sons have done. 
Carnegie, Rockefeller had no need 

At all to send his hostage gifts. Although 
The horizon darkens with a quickening speed, 

He could find shelter. But the mass below 
Will grind to grist the unfortunates caught between. 

Now doubts long laughed at, taking tangible shape. 
Are clothed in human form, and the thin screen 

Which hid has let reverted man escape. 
Then must again a wrinkled world go through 

Its growing pains, and have the people failed 
Once more? Greece, Venice, Holland, England knew 

Such failure, when their populations quailed 
Before the force which they themselves had freed. 

Still vales are startled by a sullen roar; 
Scarce stirred is leaf or grass or weed. 

But on the heights great oak trees bow before 
A Fury shrieking, as it plies its scourge, 

While men a safer footing seek to find 
Upon another reign of terror's verge. 

What will make sane again the general mind? 
What hour will the voice eloquent be heard 

To lead men back to paths of righteousness, 
To spread the sway of science undeterred 

By witchcraft's foolish power to ban or bless. 



142 BRIDLE PATHS 

And silence the vociferant oracles 

Who thunder remedies for fancied ills, 
In ignorance of germ or life or cells, 

And dose the public with their patent pills? 
Will nature reassert itself and cure 

The mind diseased, or must the curtains blaze 
Around the couch to break its soft allure? 

Is the state chronic or but passing phase? 
At last Democracy has met its test, 

And needs the prayers of every church and home; 
For it has fed and drunk with too much zest, 

And staggers blindly. Then will no help come 
To raise and guide it to the higher plane, 

Whence it has fallen, the wiser for its fall, 
And set the star of hope on high again. 

Which led the Wise Men to the ox's stall?" 

The Farmer here trod out the fire — a sign 

To bit and saddle and be off. Down, down 
The horses clattered on the long decline, 

And half-across the valley toward the town. 
It is the trot that makes the narrow road 

Flow round the bend behind; the trot that takes 
The rider where the peach blooms lately glowed. 

The single foot is well enough, and breaks 
No market eggs. The canter for a while 

In park or shady lane! The gallop when 



THE BORDERLAND 143 

The ice gorge breaks and floods the sharp defile! 

But for the all-dav journey, mark ye, men! 
It is the trot that strikes the gravel spark, 

And casts the rounded pebble stone aside, 
And keeps the music going until dark 

Of creaking saddle leather — that's to ridel 
Then let the stirrup out to finger-tip 

And arm, and ever keep the light rein low. 
While league on league of level high-road slip 

Away, where all the travelled highroads go, 
To eddy in the village which at morn 

Or noon was passed. No doubt its gossips now 
Are sounding loud the cheerful supper horn. 

And here's a lighted tavern called "The Plough," 
And here is drink to drown the riders' thirst. 

Then fill the glass and fill it up again. 
But shun the dripping well, a thing accursed. 

The breeder of foul fever and of pain. 
And when the supper's over, fiddlers three 

Soon set the shufSe going on the floor. 
A glass of grog and pipe are company, 

But on the long face slam the tavern door. 
And light the candle when the moon is low. 

When in the chamber window shines red Mars, 
Nor wake at all 'til dawn, for that is how 

They slept who rode away to fight the wars. 



Part IV 

Lost Cove 



BY spring attended on their southward course, 
Behind the mountains' barrier 'gainst the sea's 
Soft airs, which eastward earlier loosed the force 

Of winter — under naked forest trees. 
Upward the horsemen rode toward wooded heights, 

Unripened yet by any summer heat 
Into their bloom. Here on clear, windless nights 

The white frost fell and made the mornings sweet. 
From morn 'til noon, from noon 'til eve, the eye 

And ear grew keener on the steep ascent. 
Across the valley came the crow's harsh cry; 

The falling tree's reverberations blent 
In one last crash against the mountain wall, 

And from a distant clearing once they heard 
A child's voice, high and shrill, in warning call, 

At which a spiral smoke grew faint and blurred. 
Commingling with the air. An hour's slow pace 

Carried them past a home, which gave no sign 
Of human life; but from the bush a face 

Unseen peered sullenly, and a low whine. 
Half-stifled in the cur which uttered it. 

Was heard, and thenceforth until dark their route 
Was paralleled by one who used his wit 

To see, himself unseen. 'Twas not the hoot 
147 



148 BRIDLE PATHS 

Of owl they heard at dark, but human voice 

So like the owl's that they who heard it said, 
"An owl!" then wondered if it were the noise 

It seemed. The Farmer oft in youth had led 
The hoot owl near by mimicking its cry, 

But now his answering call mourned through the wood, 
Finding no other voice to make reply, 

And doubt and darkness reared full-grown a brood 
Of nervous fancies, by the horses shared. 

They were but four who rode the mountain trail; 
The others on their homeward way had fared 

East to the coast from Shenandoah's vale. 
Leaving the Farmer, Doctor, Preacher, Sage 

To find their way into the wilderness. 
Whose secret places held a heritage 

Of trouble which went with the land, now less 
When it seemed grown unbearable; now more 

Just when it neared the point of vanishment. 
This heritage of strife the Farmer bore 

For a young ward — a girl — whose parent went 
Down to the grave so vexed with care, he said, 

"All that I cherished I have lost. Now will 
I care for nothing," and next month was dead, 

As one who learned that want of care could kill. 
A queen to throne unstable there had sought, 

While fortune smiled, to anticipate her frown, 
And therefore, shrewdly, through a trustee, bought 

Half of this mountain county, where 'twas known 



LOST COVE 149 

Lay beds of coal which, so the monarch planned, 

Should prove a store of wealth. The monarch died, 
The mines still undeveloped, and the land 

Was sold in parcels. Scattered far and wide 
Were many purchasers, who, when in turn 

They came to sell, learned there were certain links 
Of title missing. Squatters, wild and stern. 

Hunted and set their traps for coons and minks, 
Roamed through the forest in pursuit of deer. 

Built their rude homes and raised their crops of corn. 
The stranger at his peril ventured near 

Their mountain stills. The crack of rifle, borne 
On the thin air, turned him away who would 

Have set at play, now that the railroad neared, 
New forces in the lonely neighborhood — 

Law, labor, churches, schools — where now men feared 
To penetrate. The unfettered mountaineer 

Something from what the ages slowly taught 
To wondering man had made his own. His gear 

Of untanned skins; his fare of wild things caught 
Or shot; his home-made raiment — these embraced, 

With shelter, his few simple wants. He came 
And went at will, or a few furrows traced. 

Adjusting life to superstition's claim. 
Planting his seed by phases of the moon. 

Guiding his way by signs, suspicion's prey, 
Passing from sire to son a hate which soon 

Or late grew into fierce desire to slay — 



150 BRIDLE PATHS 

All for a fancied slight. The child remained 

In the man's stature. Sudden rages flamed 
From fires unbanked, or smouldering glowed and waned 

To flare again in savage breasts untamed, 
And spread from man to man — an affair of State — 

Involving all the region. Not a score 
Of men shot in their doorways could abate 

The feud while lived a single foeman more. 
To such a region, so inhabited. 

The Farmer and his friends had come. By day 
(To a spectator freed from every dread) 

From mountain range to range, far, far away, 
A formless beauty silently withdrew 

Behind the horizon's curtain; and at night 
One steep was draped in robes of sable hue 

And one the moon decked all in silvery white. 
Thro' chasms unknown dashed streams by man unsought, 

And trout there leaped and lived to leap again; 
The deer, which came to drink, the next year brought 

A new fawn to the brink, unharmed by men, 
Who, when the feud was on, themselves were prey 

And hunter both. The ambling black bear fed 
Along the abandoned trail in the broad day. 

While men were taught to feel the chase's dread. 

The night had fall'n; one last hill rose ahead. 
Which climbed, a warmer current of air foretold 

The village near. The rambling highway led 
Between homes darkened, all the house fires cold 



LOST COVE 151 

And silent as the street, whose length revealed 

No sign of inn or shelter or of light, 
Save from a single window's yellow field. 

Set in black frame against the mountain height. 
Which drew the horsemen to a house of woe — 

A husband sorely hurt by rifle ball — 
A young wife in her earliest childbirth throe — 

Her mother the sole midwife. What far call 
Through time and space had led the healer on 

By devious route until he reached this door 
To drive the anguish from the faces drawn 

And keep the night watch with the sick and sore! 
Deftly the Doctor dressed the hurt man's wound 

And brought him cheer and sleep; the wife endured 
Pain bravely now. Her hour had not come round. 

The mother, comforted and reassured, 
Her lantern lit and led the w^ay to show 

A place of shelter for the horses; fed 
The fire; the kettle of brass hung in its glow 

Upon the hob; baked Carolina bread 
Of cornmeal, white and soft, and twice refilled 

The piggin with buttermilk, and set the sweet 
From the wild blossoms by the bees instilled. 

Forgot was all the weariness of her feet 
In joy that aid had come in her distress. 

Sated at last the hunger of each guest, 
She took the path across the wilderness 

To find for Sage and Preacher place of rest, 



152 BRIDLE PATHS 

Leaving the sick ones in the Doctor's care. 

The wounded man slept on. The wife, wide-eyed, 
Saw not the shadows leap, her candle flare, 

Or the bright colors on her coverlid, 
Along whose edge she ran her finger-tips. 

So still the house, she heard her mouser purr. 
And a sweet smile spread from her pallid lips; 

Her eyelids drooped, her tired limbs ceased to stir. 
Oft had the Farmer nursed a stricken sheep. 

And many a time a bleeding wound had dressed. 
The first night watch he volunteered to keep 

And give the Doctor the first hours of rest. 
When in the hour the mother raised the latch. 

Her old eyes, speaking for the silent lips. 
The Doctor's answering look were quick to catch. 

From room to room she passed, brought tallow-dips, 
A shake-down bed and cover, warm and thick. 

Of bear skin, firewood, water, and renewed 
The candle sputtering in the candle-stick; 

Set cheese and bread and a mild beer, home-brewed, 
And then withdrew. Across the narrow vale 

The Preacher from his chamber opposite 
Looked toward this house, and read the signal's tale — 

The yellow window still was candle lit. 

Half-way up the timbered mountain, 
In the night a dog is barking, 
And a window is illumined 
By a light first seen at nightfall. 



LOST COVE 153 

Now the dawn is near to breaking 
In the wood a bird half-wakened 
Stirs with faint, uncertain twitter, 
Then again the copse is silent. 

In the chamber on the mountain 
Is it life or death the watcher 
Waits for? In the scheme of nature 
Very little does it matter. 

One departs, another cometh, 
Nature keeps no vacant places, 
Hides the fire track on the mountain, 
Fills again the heart left empty. 

Mother, stern, impenetrable, 
Tho' the home be steeped in sorrow, 
Dawn she sends upon the summits, 
Lifts the shadow from the valley, 

Starts with light the sleeping forest, 
Sends a footstep through the village, 
Disregards the sleeper, sleeping 
The long sleep that knows no waking. 



Morn in the mountains! Air so crisp and clear, 
It is the spirit's font of youth. Age claims 

The stiffened limbs, but in such atmosphere 
The soul inspirited its body shames 

To action tho' the will be lost. The day 
Disclosed a village without plan, a street 



154 BRIDLE PATHS 

Irregular and homes of strange array, 

This, where the morning's earhest sunbeam beat, 
That in the shadow, one upon a hill. 

Another in the hollow, back to back 
Along the windings of a mountain rill, 

Each from the highway reached o'er narrow track; 
And all were emptied early. For a truce 

Between the clansmen on this pleasant morn 
Began, and they were gathering now to choose 

Their party delegates. No arms were borne 
By the incoming groups. Fearless they rode 

Into the town to mingle with their foes, 
The village folk, who without rifles strode 

Into the meeting-place. The rough-hewn rows 
Of benches soon were filled. With solemn face. 

Fit for the church, was read and heard the call 
Naming the meeting's purpose, time, and place. 

"It now will be in order for you all 
To choose a chairman," thus the voice ran on; 

And thereupon 'twas moved and seconded 
That "Jonas Tolliver, of Lost Cove Run, 

Do take the chair." The ayes were called. O'erhead 
The rafters rang, and Tolliver took the chair; 

Whereat a voice cried out in protest, "Men 
Who believe in a convention right and fair. 

All follow me." The feud was near again. 
With angry looks the bolters hurried out 

To hold their meeting in the open air, 



LOST COVE 155 

While they who stayed hurled many a jeer and flout 

At combatants beaten within their lair. 
While rival forces chose their delegates, 

And sent credentials to the county seat, 
Raising aloft a pyramid of hates 

On unforgotten triumph or defeat, 
The quiet watcher of the threatening scene. 

The Farmer, under cover of the truce. 
Rode o'er the mountain to the court-house green 

With two-fold object: First, to search for clues 
Of missing deeds, and then to see the clans, 

Contending in convention for the right 
Of seat and vote. Immersed in his own plans. 

By red-backed records almost hid from sight. 
Within a brick-paved room, the walls all lined 

With books whose bindings filled the unsunned air 
With smell of leather, hoping yet to find 

His ward's lost title-deed recorded there, 
The Farmer in the peace of that still place 

Forgot the warring factions and their strife. 
That stage was set with actors face to face 

And play of passion on from real life. 
While thus absorbed the door was opened, three 

Men entered, and the foremost one declared 
That as the Lost Cove factions failed to agree. 

And the convention still was unprepared 
To reach decision which all could approve. 

It therefore wished the Farmer to appear. 



156 BRIDLE PATHS 

And tell the election story of Lost Cove — 

'Twas waiting now his narrative to hear. 
This said, his visitors showed no intent 

Of going until he should go. His plea 
Of interference waived aside, he went 

Before the wind to try a troubled sea. 
The delegates were gathered round the door. 

Awaiting his approach. The chairman rapped 
And said, "We have a witness on the floor" — 

Here murmurs rose, and once again he tapped 
Upon the desk — "a witness of repute. 

Who for your information will narrate 
The facts concerning the Lost Cove dispute." 

The Farmer told what he had seen of late. 
That on the vote to fill the chair the "nays" 

Had not been called for; whereupon 'twas moved 
The bolters' delegates be given place 

In the convention, and this was approved. 
The ousted delegates, led by Tolliver, 

Mounting their horses, slowly rode away, 
And each chagrined and angry follower 

Thought of the Farmer as a foe that day — 
A spy, a hired spy, from — they knew not where. 

Whose word had robbed them of a candidate. 
The shrievalty and its protecting care. 

And danger and defeat gave birth to hate. 
The Farmer had made friends as well as foes. 

Through him the village folk had won. They knew 



LOST COVE 157 

His danger. When he walked, in silence rose 

A self-appointed guard, who kept in view 
His movements. If he stopped, they paused. At noon 

They sat at table where he ate. At night, 
Under the dim rays of the setting moon. 

Back to the village, one upon his right. 
Another on his left, others ahead. 

Still others following, through the woods they rode 
Up to his door, then turned their horses, said 

"Good night," and each man sought his own 
abode. 

That morn twin babies had been given birth — 

Two lusty boys — and wives made festival 
Of cheer and help around the mother's hearth. 

Exclaiming o'er the perfect limbs and all 
The beauties of the forms they bathed and dressed. 

And likenesses thus early plain to see 
Or easily fancied; but each wife confessed 

That twins so much alike from foot to knee. 
In chest and face, had ne'er been seen before; 

And one they said should bear the Doctor's name, 
For God had sent him to the mother's door. 

And one the Farmer's, now a man of fame 
Through all the village. But for him their clan 

Had lost, their foes had triumphed. Then they bound 
Ribbons — one red, one blue — on chubby limbs. 

To help the mother's knowledge; but they found 



158 BRIDLE PATHS 

She knew without the narrow ribbon rims; 

And John was never Mark to that true heart 
'Til very old, her grandsons grown, she felt 

Her last sleep near, and rousing with a start 
Called "John" to grandson Mark, who by her knelt. 

Together now the travellers were housed 

Where Sage and Preacher first had lodged, and there 
The weary Doctor on a settle drowsed 

Until across the vale a messenger. 
Bare-headed, called him to the sick man's side. 

At daylight he returned; his work was done. 
From the poor-house, wherein the man had died. 

Where life had come, whence now a life had flown, 
From contest with the conqueror, he had met 

A new dawn waking all the world; had seen 
Its banners from the far peak's parapet 

Rushed o'er the hills and valleys deep between; 
And he had breathed the fragrant air, and heard 

The breeze, all vocal with the song of birds, 
To spring-time's joyous, jubilant chorus stirred. 

Move through the forest whispering unf ramed words ; 
And all the little limbs had stretched for room; 

The sleeping buds had heard with him; the leaves 
Unborn had murmured happily in the womb; 

The great oak tossing round with noisy heaves 
Ordered his monarchy; and the white birch. 

Fresh from her bath, with shining, satiny skin. 



LOST COVE 159 

Said her sweet, silent prayer in Nature's church, 

And slowly let her shining robe begin 
To slip around her. Leering brambles caught 

At it; the scarlet tanager flashed through 
Its texture with full bosom overwrought 

And cast upon the pool a glancing hue. 
Thus coming from the house of woe, whence hope, 

Deluding it a while, had gone before, 
On this brave pageantry of steep and slope, 

Weighing another's grief, he closed the door. 

Revenge would wait the burial. Peace 'til then. 

Not so the young men felt. They would have had 
The killing start at once; but the old men 

Knew what was decorous. With faces sad 
They heard the Preacher's prayer, filled up the grave. 

Took up their rifles stacked around the trees. 
And, mounting, rode away to hold conclave. 

The truce was over; war should follow peace; 
But first they had another debt to pay. 

Healer and Farmer, Preacher, each in turn 
Had done them services. No ingrates they! 

Their simple hearts could beat — nay, more — could 
burn 
With gratitude as well as hate, and were 

As prompt in settlement of the kindlier score 
As of the other. Seeking to confer 

Help now, they showed the great good-will they bore. 



160 BRIDLE PATHS 

'Twas thus the patriarch of the place held forth, 

And met with no dissent, though all divined 
The purpose of his speech. Men from the North 

Had come and gone again, and left behind 
The undiscovered secret of their search; 

While all those years a box of resinous pine. 
Buried half-way between a spruce and birch 

Tree — southward, fifteen paces from the line — 
Held the long missing deeds, and kept away 

The settlements, and left the mountaineer 
To roam the woods at will with none to stay 

The trapper or the stalking of the deer. 
Led by the patriarch, half a score of men 

Unearthed the box, and gravely yielded up 
Its contents to the Farmer, sound as when 

First buried. Solemnly a strong health cup 
Was drunk of liquor from a mountain still, 

Potent, if pale. More skilled in act than speech, 
The Farmer asked the experienced Sage to fill 

The thought all shared into the waiting breach. 
That thought the Sage expressed in homely phrase, 

Such as had often held a larger throng. 
Rugged as any mountaineer, his face 

And form seemed to the mountains to belong, 
Confirming confidence. Not long he dwelt 

Upon the aid his friends had given the clan, 
But longer on the bond which they had felt. 

Which everywhere unseen binds man to man. 



LOST COVE 161 

The value of the parchments was, he said, 

Less than the act which gave them up. A hand 
Held out to aid had loosed the fonts which fed 

The heart and gained what force could ne'er command. 
He told of one who trod thro' ceaseless strife 

The open road which leads to power and place. 
Round him men quarrelled out a little life. 

Like battling herds held in a narrow space, 
They never thought to break their boundaries down 

Or knew the road ran by; but when enraged, 
They saw one speed the path which gains renown. 

Each envious group from its enclosure waged 
War on him, stoned him, shrieked their futile ire, 

Defamed him, saying that some evil power 
Had sped the runner toward his heart's desire, 

And o'er his fellow-men had helped him tower. 
He ran their bitter gauntlet, gained his goal. 

Knew all ingratitude, yet kept a heart 
Tender toward all distress, and oft made whole 

What fate or weakness else had rent apart. 
The red men were his wards. He stood between 

Them and the white man's greed. His power compelled 
The State to pay their claims, and they keep green 

His memory, which in reverence still is held 
Among them from the Rio Grande clear 

To the St. Lawrence. Once there reached his door 
A priest from far Canadian forests. Fear 

Had brought him with the burden, which he bore 



162 BRIDLE PATHS 

Straight to the Indians' friend. The money given 

To build a mission church was gone. None knew 
Save that poor priest who'd lost his hope of Heaven. 

Knowing mankind, believing the tale true, 
The listener placed within the penitent's hand 

The equivalent of the loss. The church was built, 
The mission bells rang merrily in that land. 

The erring bosom only knew its guilt, 
But all the Abenakis learned to do 

The giver reverence and tribal rights 
Conferred on him. The Delawares, grateful, true. 

Driven across the continent by the whites, 
Arrayed the one great friend among their foes 

In rarest robes on which the squaws had wrought 
From many mornings until evening's close. 

By rites with many sacred meanings fraught. 
With dance and feast and ceremonious show, 

They gave him title and the chieftain's rank, 
The highest honor which they could bestow. 

Victor in many contests, when he sank 
To his last sleep he wrote with feeble hand 

The words "Imploro Pacem" for his tomb — 
Here the Sage paused. How could he best command 

The clan to let the flowers of peace have bloom? 
Could these be turned from strife? He could but try. 

"So I implore for peace. I pray you let 
The law deal with the slayer. Cease the cry 

For blood. Instead, the scales of justice set 



LOST COVE 163 

And end this feud, which otherwise will fill 

Your children's graves before their time." And so 

They did, moved by some sudden miracle 

To yield to friend who would not yield to foe. 

Lost Cove is changed. While the great world outside 

Seeks to o'erturn the fabric of slow time. 
And stern experience is despised, defied. 

And States have taken up the footpad's crime. 
Who preyed upon the public which now preys 

Upon the man. Lost Cove at last could blend 
Factions long kept apart by bloody frays. 

The mines were opened, and the engines send 
Their whistle echoes through the deep ravines. 

Something of Nature's beauty has been marred. 
But man moves safely now through Nature's scenes, 

And homes are happier than when clansmen warred. 
In the great change which brought the church and 
school 

The travellers from their Northern homes bore part. 
The power which drew them there to start the rule 

Of law and love still held. The Farmer's heart 
Beat to good purpose. At the busy mines 

An account w^as kept, with heading "Mark and John," 
Of funds made up from contributions, fines, 

And royalties; and these, as years went on. 
Equipped the orphans with the needed skill 

To follow veins, timber the dangerous vaults, 



164 BRIDLE PATHS 

Guard life against the detonation's thrill, 

And plan the groping, underground assaults 
On Nature's hidden scarp and palisade. 

The Farmer's ward — a wife and mother now — 
Yearly a sum into three portions made, 

And this, with kisses on her own child's brow. 
Shared with a silent prayer between her son 

And the two mountain boys. Nor was forgot 
The widow's need. Thus lives well ordered won 

Over disorder. Only when is brought 
The news of social strife throughout the land 

Does Lost Cove know more of distress than springs 
For all from sickness, pain, or the cool hand 

Of death. Often the Farmer homeward brings 
To those who rode with him words of good cheer. 

And once in summer, when the four had met, 
And silent looked across the pastures near. 

To hills where long before the sun had set. 
And all the birds grew still, their thought again 

Flew backward to the clansman's house of woe. 
Where birth and death had met to share domain. 

At last the Preacher spoke: "Into one blow 
Life often concentrates its grief, and then 

Gives peace. Again, it strews a thorny path 
From youth to age with sorrow. Still again 

A few are sheltered from the common wrath 
To wear away 'neath burdens without name. 

Who pities, pity needs. Who envious sighs 



LOST COVE 165 

Is to be envied. Griefs are not the same 
To all, nor gifts; and years should make us wise 

To see how in the end all is bestowed, 
With a just measure, so each heart its plight 

May bravely bear upon the lonely road 
Un terrified, from darkness into light." 

THE SILENCED VOICE 

From a full heart her song welled forth. 

Blithely, albeit the skies were gray, 
A simple song of modest worth, 

Ballad, ditty, or roundelay. 

A woman at the window heard, 

Her needle poised, the stitch unmade. 

The singer ceased; the woman stirred 

And took the stitch the song had stayed. 

Her childhood fled, thro' maidenhood 

The voice sang on in deeper tone. 
Like that mayst hear in a still wood 

When come upon a stream alone. 

A happy wife, now here, now there. 
From the long hall or when her feet 

Crossed the high bridge-way of the stair, 
Came back her carol low and sweet. 

Her cup was full. She shared her gifts 
With lavish hand, but none the less 

Life's veil which lowers, but never lifts, 
Has blurred her radiant happiness. 



166 BRIDLE PATHS 

Tears have not wet her cheek by night; 

Care has not marred the perfect day, 
Misfortune's breath and sorrows blight 

Have missed her on her pleasant way. 

But when she felt the sudden chill 
Of twilight fall upon the heart. 

Her sweet song faltered and grew still, 
With lips which phrased it still apart. 

Rarely is heard her laughter now, 
Forgot her song, its music lost; 

Infrequent and more faintly flow 
Earth's carols near the autumn frost. 



NOTES 



Page 21 : "Gettysburg." 

This poem was read at the dedication of the Pennsylvania 
monuments on the field of Gettysburg, September 12, 1889. 



Page 25: " Their volleys rang the first and last; 

They kept with Webb the target-wood." 
The battle of Gettysburg was opened by the Fifty-sixth 
Pennsylvania Infantry, commanded by Colonel (afterwards 
General) John William Hofmann. General Cutler, who com- 
manded the brigade, wrote to the Governor of Pennsylvania, 
November 5, 1863, as follows: "It was my fortune to be in 
advance on the morning of July i. When we came upon the 
ground in front of the enemy. Colonel Hofmann's regiment 
(being the second in the column) got into position a moment 
sooner than the others, the enemy now advancing in line of 
battle within easy musket-range. The atmosphere being a 
little thick, I took out my glass to examine the enemy, being 
a few paces in rear of Colonel Hofmann, who turned to me and 
inquired, 'Is that the enemy?' My reply was, 'Yes.' Turn- 
ing to his men, he commanded, 'Ready, right-oblique, aim, 
fire!' and the battle of Gettysburg was opened." The last 
volley from Meade's army was fired by the advancing Pennsyl- 
vania Reserves on the evening of the third day. "The 
Philadelphia Brigade," commanded in this battle by General 
Alexander S. Webb, held that part of Meade's line immediately 
in front of the little grove of trees, which was pointed out to 
General Pickett, before his famous charge of the third day 
began, as the spot where he should strike the Union line. This 
grove is popularly known as the "high- water mark of the 
rebellion." 

167 



168 NOTES 

Page 30 : " Tacey Richardson. ' ' 

The heroine of the adventure described in this poem was 
the daughter of Captain Joseph Richardson, whose remark- 
able exploits are told in a sketch included in a volume entitled, 
Historical and Biographical Sketches, by Judge Samuel W. 
Pennypacker, pubUshed in Philadelphia in 1883. Tacey 
Richardson actually did what the poem describes her as 
doing. The horses, "Sopus," "Fearnaught," and "Scipio," 
were Arabian horses which belonged to her father. 



Page 40: "St. James', Perkiomen. " 

Tradition fixes the date of the founding of St. James' Protestant 
Episcopal Church on the Perkiomen Creek at about the year 
1700. The first date of record is 1708. Edward Lane, the 
founder of the Church, was a friend of William Penn. He gave 
the glebe land. Col. John Bull was a warden at the outbreak 
of the Revolutionary War. After the Battle of Germantown 
the Church was used as a hospital for wounded Continental 
soldiers, and many of them were buried in the church-yard. 
Captain Howard, of the Maryland Light Dragoons, was shot 
near by. An old soldier of the neighborhood said he heard 
Washington say that Howard was a brave man. Judge William 
Moore, of Moore Hall, attended St. James' and St. David's, 
Radnor, on alternate Sundays. Washington came from Valley 
Forge to attend St. James', which was one of the thirteen churches 
represented at the meeting in Philadelphia, May 24, 1784. 
This meeting led to the organization of the Protestant Epis- 
copal Church in America. 



Page 45 : " The Perkiomen. ' ' 

For several weeks previous and subsequent to the battle of 
Germantown, Washington's army was encamped upon the 
Perkiomen Creek, in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, 
General Washington's headquarters being at Pennybacker's 



NOTES 169 

Mills. There he issued the congratulatory order announcing 
Burgoyne's defeat. Some of Washington's officers, wounded 
or killed in the battle of Germantown, found graves in the 
church-yards of the peaceful Mennonites, or Dunkards, near 
the Perkiomen, who, like the Quakers, refused to bear arms for 
conscience' sake. Among them was General Nash, of North 
Carolina. 



Page 47: "The Old Church at the Trappe. " 

Previous to and during the Revolutionary War the pastor 
of this church was the Rev. Henry Melchior Muhlenberg, 
the founder of the Lutheran Church in America. He was 
perfectly familiar with the Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, and is 
said to have used in speaking and writing all the modern 
languages of the continent of Europe. He played with skill 
on the organ, harp, guitar, and violin, and possessed a pleas- 
ing voice and sang in a way that gave his hearers much enjoy- 
ment. He kept a diary in which he noted his dismay at witness- 
ing the scene described in the fifth stanza of the poem. The 
line from the Latin under the title of the poem, and paraphrased 
in the last stanza, is carved upon his tombstone. He and his 
three sons are buried by the church-wall. One of these sons 
was Major-General Peter Muhlenberg. 



Page 48: "And Gottlieb, colonial musician. " 

This was Gottlieb Mittleberger, music-master, organist at 
the Trappe church, and author of A Journey to Pennsylvania 
in the year 1750, etc. He brought the first organ to America. 



Page 48: " the warrior who, robed as a colonel, 

Led his men to the fight from the prayer. " 
Lossing, in his sketch of General Muhlenberg, and T. 
Buchanan Read, in his poem, "The Wagoner of the Alle- 



170 NOTES 

ghanies, " narrate his dramatic closing of a sermon in his Virginia 
church by saying, "There is a time for all things — a time to fight 
and a time to pray, but those times have passed away. There 
is a time to fight, and that time has now come. " Then laying 
aside his robe, he stood before his flock in the full regimental 
dress of a Virginia colonel. He ordered the drums to be beaten 
at the church-door for recruits, and almost all of his male audi- 
ence capable of bearing arms enlisted. His brother, Frederick 
Augustus Muhlenberg, was the first President of Congress 
under the Constitution, and afterwards United States Senator 
from Pennsylvania. Another brother was the Rev. Henry 
Ernst Muhlenberg, D.D., one of the most widely known of 
early American botanists. His Flora of Lancaster County was 
published in 1785. Among his other botanical works was a 
catalogue of native and naturalized plants of North America, 
arranged according to the sexual system of Linnseus. 



Page 51: "Ha! ha! and Ha! ha! Indeed!" 

Captain John Hall removed from St. Mary's County, Mary- 
land, and in 1694 bought fifteen hundred and thirty-nine acres 
of land on the Bush River, in the northern part of Baltimore 
county. He called his new home Cranberry Hall. William 
White Wiltbank, Esq., in a paper read at a meeting in 1877 
of the descendants of Colonel Thomas White, who was the 
father of Bishop White, of the Protestant Episcopal Church, 
records of Cranberry Hall this tradition, which affords the 
somewhat slight foundation for the poem: 

"His children, while they trembled, yearned to hear, and 
devoutly believed, ghost stories; and his fields were the scenes 
of wild midnight mysteries, that gave names to their open 
stage. . . . There is an entertaining instance of this in the 
traditions of a tract till recently in the family, of which one 
enclosure was called 'Ha! ha!' and another, 'Ha! ha! Indeed!' 
The restless spectre that ruled the former in the deep of night 
announced his presence and his humor in a wild 'Ha! ha!' to 



NOTES 171 

whom the unknowable soul in the other field, whether in the 
sympathy of jollity or in the malevolence of mockery and 
triumph cannot be said, laughed back, in startling notes, 'Ha! 
ha! Indeed!'" 



Page 54: "At the Sign of the Red Rose. " 

The Moravian chronicles contain a brief reference to the 
spectre horseman who was supposed to haunt the locality of 
the Red Rose Inn. 



Page 58: "LeonardKeyser." 

"In 1527 was the learned and good Leonard Keyser taken 
and condemned to be burnt. As he neared the fire, bound in 
a cart, he brake off a flower that grew in the field, and said to 
the judges, for they rode along with him, 'If ye can burn this 
little flower and me, then have ye judged aright; if not, take 
heed and repent. ' Thrice the great fagots were heaped around 
him at the stake and kindled. Nevertheless, when they had 
burned away, his body was found unmarked, save that his 
hair was singed and his nails were a little brown. Likewise 
the little flower yet lay in his hand unchanged. Thereupon 
the sheriffs cut his body into pieces and cast them into the 
Inn. But a judge was so moved thereat that he yielded up 
his office, and one of the sheriffs became a Mennonite brother 
and ever thereafter lived a pious life." — Van Braght. 



Page 61: "In Winter Quarters." 

"Soon after the battle of Brandy wine. La Fayette, who had 
been wounded, was conveyed to the house of Dr. Stephens, a 
short distance from Valley Forge. The office of the doctor, in 
the second story of the building, with a flight of steps leading 



172 NOTES 

down into the kitchen, was under the charge of his daughter, 
a young girl, afterwards Mistress EHzabeth Rossiter. One 
morning, while she was engaged in cleaning the room, La Fayette 
entered, followed by a young aide-de-damp. The aide, with 
French impulse, seized the girl and kissed her. La Fayette 
turned quickly about, and unceremoniously kicked the young 
gentleman down the steps and out of the house, telling him 
at the same time that such conduct was not permissible." — 
Annals of Phosnixville and Vicinity, page iii. 



Page 71: "John Ericsson." 

On the death in New York of John Ericsson, in 1889, the 
government of Sweden requested that the body of the inventor 
of "The Monitor" be returned to his native land. It was trans- 
ferred in the U. S. S. "Baltimore" to Stockholm, distinguished 
honors being paid to his memory in both the United States 
and Sweden. 



wM 28 vm 



